The Warehouse on Wharf 33
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Jim becomes entangled in the case of a bizarre bombing of a warehouse, which apparently killed a jewel thief he dealt with once before. Thrown into the mess are the victim's angry friend, some policemen Jim has never met, and a private eye he wishes he had never met.
1. Chapter 1

**The Rockford Files**

**The Warehouse on Wharf 33**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! This heavily involves characters from the season 4 episode **_**The Queen of Peru**_**, specifically the bad guys and the insurance agent, and will also involve recurring character Vern St. Cloud and a couple of policemen from **_**Perry Mason**_**. Jim is definitely in for a wild case.**

**Chapter One**

The warehouse was right at the edge of the pier, immediately visible to anyone who came by. The man in the yellow cab leaned forward, studying the structure with an unimpressed, furrowed brow.

"You're certain that this is this address," he said, holding out the note.

The cab driver peered at the crude newspaper letters that had been glued to the paper. "Yeah, Bud," he said. "This is where you wanted to go, so pay up and get out, unless you've changed your mind."

The man reached into his suit coat pocket for his wallet and the cash. "Here you go, Mate," he said smoothly, coolly, as he counted the correct amount of bills and held them out.

The driver snatched them, counted them himself, and nodded in approval. "So are you getting out now or what?"

"I suppose I am, especially since you are so impatient for me to depart." The passenger stepped out of the cab and onto the pier, bringing a long, heavy trenchcoat with him. He draped it over his shoulders as he stood there, frowning at the note.

He certainly didn't trust the mysterious sender, gluing newspaper letters together like a cliché kidnapper. But he also didn't know who would be so bold as to send him something like this, and he deemed the acquisition of that knowledge important enough that this trip was necessary.

He wished he could have come here with Lou, the only man he completely trusted. But Lou was unavailable and the note had been very specific about arriving at a particular time. Of course, that only made him more suspicious than ever. He had brought his shotgun, just in case. And he had also taken another precaution.

The sound of a car from behind him brought his attention around, and he turned to look as a dark blue sedan arrived and switched off its lights. He recognized both the car and the driver, nervously fidgeting behind the wheel, and he sighed in exasperation to himself.

Mike, Lou's brother, really wasn't much of a precaution. But he _was_ another person, and it was to be hoped that he was so leery of the man who had asked him here that he wouldn't dare do anything stupid to incur his ire.

Mike looked up as the man with the trenchcoat calmly sauntered over. He rolled down the window, his hand unsteady. "I came, Ginger," he said. "Am I late?"

"You're right on time," Ginger replied, placing his hand on the door. "Now, do you remember what I told you?"

"Wait until you get inside, then go up to the window and look in," Mike said. "And be ready to shoot if there's any trouble."

"Exactly. And I'm sure you won't do anything foolish this time, such as double-cross me." Ginger looked firmly into Mike's eyes. "I wasn't shooting to kill before. Another time, I might be."

Mike swallowed hard. "I won't do anything except what you told me, Ginger," he said.

"Good." Ginger turned and started away from the car, his trenchcoat billowing in the late summer night breeze. His shotgun gleamed from under the heavy coat.

Mike watched him move towards the warehouse, nervously running his tongue over his lips. His palms were slippery on the steering wheel, and he gripped it tighter, wondering what he was getting into this time.

Ginger Townsend was more Lou's friend than Mike's. When the three of them had all teamed up with another man to steal a famous diamond, the new guy had tempted Mike into double-crossing the others and trying to sell the diamond back to the company for a high profit. Mike had regretted betraying his brother, but the thought of all that money had drawn him in anyway.

He had regretted his decision even more when Ginger had shot at him, trying to stop or incapacitate him, and had hit his mark.

Mike had been excluded from all future deals that Ginger and Lou had set up. And that had been fine with him, really. He had been afraid of the cold, aloof Ginger even before the shooting. Lou was often the only thing that could hold Ginger's anger at bay, and sometimes he failed, too.

Mike didn't even know how Ginger had acquired such a nickname. His hair was very blond, not reddish at all. Once Mike had innocently asked about it and had received a silent stare in reply.

The silent stare usually shut anyone up whose questions Ginger did not want to answer. Even Lou received that response now and then, although far less than anyone else. Lou had long ago learned, for the most part, what Ginger did and did not want to talk about. That was one reason why, Mike supposed, they got along so well. For the life of him, though, he didn't know how or why Lou had even wanted to hang around Ginger long enough to figure him out that much.

The one thing Mike _did_ know was that Lou was never going to get away from Ginger. Lou didn't want to. Mike had learned that he had to tolerate that, and that he even had to be ready to run favors for Ginger, if Lou was not around.

Ginger wandered into the warehouse, shutting the door behind him. Mike was only half-watching, but at this action he shook himself out of his thoughts and started to open the car door, intending to do as Ginger wanted and go up to a window.

The horrific explosion made Mike flinch in shock and disbelief. The entire warehouse was suddenly in flames, fire having shot out the door and all of the windows.

The color drained from his face. Ginger had been right to be suspicious, but he hadn't been suspicious enough. Someone had set up this "meeting" just to kill him. And from the looks of it, there was no way they hadn't succeeded.

Without even thinking of attempting to approach the building and see if Ginger had possibly survived—as he knew Lou would have done—Mike dove into the car and revved the engine, speeding away from the scene.

In the back of his mind, he knew that he was definitely doing something that would incur Ginger's wrath. But he was so certain Ginger was dead that it didn't seem a huge problem.

What worried him more was the thought that he could end up dead, too, if he stayed. If the perpetrator had decided to hang around and watch the blast, he might catch sight of Mike and come after him to make sure there were no witnesses.

The main thing Mike deeply regretted in this situation was in imagining how Lou would look when Mike told him Ginger was gone. Mike was sorry to have let Ginger down, but he felt far worse about letting his brother down.

"Sorry, Lou," he whispered. "It just couldn't be helped."

He whipped around a corner, leaving the burning building behind.

xxxx

The last thing Jim Rockford wanted to hear in the middle of the night was the ringing of his telephone. But it was ringing, very insistently, and at last in utter aggravation he struggled up and shuffled to the desk, muttering all the while.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Can't you pick a decent time to call? Like any time _before_ midnight?"

He fumbled in the dim light, grabbing up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Rockford, one of our warehouses blew up tonight!"

The familiar, whiny voice was not one Jim was expecting to hear, nor wanted to hear—whether it was two in the morning or five in the afternoon. "Kalifer?! Couldn't this have waited until morning? What do you mean a warehouse blew up?"

"My insurance company—which still has its long-standing contract with you!—insures a series of warehouses on the waterfront," Stephen Kalifer replied. "Tonight we received a call from the Los Angeles Fire Department, informing us that someone planted explosive devices in our warehouse on Wharf 33. What's worse, they discovered evidence that someone was killed in the blast!"

Jim frowned. "Why would anyone deliberately use one of your warehouses to knock somebody off?"

"That's exactly what my bosses want you to find out!" Kalifer all but howled.

"At two o'clock in the morning?" Jim exclaimed in frustration.

"Yes, when the evidence is still fresh. I'm going to be at your trailer in exactly ten minutes. And Rockford, you had better be ready to go!"

The phone clicked before Jim had any chance to reply. He flinched at the sound of the dial tone and then hung up the receiver, grumbling as he shed his robe and went to find his clothes.

Honestly, there was many a time he wished he didn't have that contract with Kalifer's insurance company. Especially every time he had to deal with Kalifer. The guy was arrogant, stuffy, and always seemed to manage to get in Jim's way.

And then there were the cases he had to handle. Of the many important things that could get him back up so soon after a long, hard day, he did not consider an exploded warehouse to be among them. Besides, he was sure that it was sheer coincidence that that particular warehouse had been chosen, instead of it having anything to do with the insurance company.

Alright, so somebody being set up to be killed in said exploded warehouse was fairly important, regardless of whether the murderer was thinking about the insurance company. But there was no way to keep something like this quiet. The police would already be all over it. The reporters, too. As far as Jim was concerned, he saw no reason why _he_ had to get involved.

Ten minutes later he was pulling on his blazer in irritation and grabbing for his car keys. Kalifer probably wanted Jim to ride with him, but Jim was going to insist that they take his car.

Then, at least, perhaps he would have some better say in when they would leave the remains of the warehouse.

The honking of a car horn set his teeth on edge. He hurried to the door, flinging it open. "Kalifer!" he scolded. "You're going to wake up the entire neighborhood."

"Well, hurry, Rockford!" Kalifer retorted, leaning out the window. "We have to get out there."

"Fine," Jim shot back, closing the door behind him. "But we're taking my car." He held up the car keys as he crossed to the Firebird.

Kalifer gawked, definitely not pleased. "Rockford . . . !"

"Take your company car, if you really want to," Jim called over his shoulder. "But I'm not riding in it with you."

Kalifer fumed. "Then you'll just have to make sure you keep up," he declared.

"I'll keep up," Jim insisted. "Really."

He knew one thing about the investigation already.

It was going to be an unbearably long night.

xxxx

Lou Trevino couldn't believe it when two policemen from the Los Angeles Police Department appeared on his doorstep close to two A.M.

"Lou Trevino?" the man in the lead greeted. "Lieutenant Steve Drumm, Homicide." He held out a badge.

Lou frowned. "What's this about, Lieutenant?" he asked. "I'm not mixed up in any homicide."

"We want to ask you some questions about an explosion that occurred tonight at a warehouse on Wharf 33," was the reply.

"Come on, Lieutenant," Lou whined. "Why would I know about something like that?"

"Because your old pal Ginger Townsend was involved in it," Lieutenant Steve Drumm retorted in irritation. "He lived here too, didn't he?"

"Ginger?" Lou blinked in surprise and confusion. "Yeah, sure, he lives here. He got out of stir not that long ago. Why would he go off and randomly blow up a warehouse?"

"We don't think he blew it up," Steve admitted. "But he was in the warehouse when it went up in flames."

Now the color drained from Lou's face. "He . . . what? So he's in a hospital somewhere? I thought it was kind of funny he wasn't home when I got back from the airport. . . ."

"He's dead," Steve said flatly.

Despite the pronouncement, it seemed too unreal to ever be the truth. "Not Ginger," Lou retorted. "He wouldn't be mixed up in something crazy like this to begin with. And if he was, he sure wouldn't come out dead! You're just jumping the gun, Lieutenant."

"I don't think so." Steve nodded to his partner, Sergeant Brice. The other man held up the remnants of a tattered and burned beige trenchcoat. "This is Ginger's, isn't it?"

The sight of the coat sent a jolt through Lou's system. He stepped forward, reaching out to touch it. Brice allowed it, watching him, remaining silent.

"Ginger always wore these things," Lou mumbled. "Even here in this oven you call L.A." He looked up. "But if this is all you've got, it could belong to anybody!"

"We have two witnesses who know he was going to that warehouse," Steve explained. "One of them was a cab driver who drove him to the address on his specifications. The other observed him entering the warehouse."

"And they're sure it was him?"

"Reasonably sure." Steve pointed to the coat. "He was wearing this, or something that looked a lot like it."

"What about a body?" Lou challenged. "Did you find the coat on a body?"

"There weren't any . . . complete bodies." Steve let that sink in.

Lou looked up with a start. "You mean Ginger was . . ." He let go of the coat, looking ill. Then he abruptly looked back to it, frowning. "What about this thing? If the bodies were blown apart, how come any of this is holding together?!"

Steve gave a tired sigh. "You'd be amazed at some of the strange evidence we find relatively intact at explosion sites."

"Well, I'm not believing Ginger is dead," Lou retorted. "Maybe he planned it that way. Maybe he's trying to get away from someone who wants him dead, so he's playing possum!"

"We've thought of that too," Steve said. "And if he'd contacted you, you would probably be insistent that he's dead, not alive, to keep up the illusion."

"I haven't heard from him." Lou turned away. "Is that all?"

"For now," Steve conceded. "But we might be back."

"Come back, for all I care," Lou snapped. "You're not going to learn anything."

Steve nodded and turned away, then paused. "By the way, Mr. Trevino. The man who saw Mr. Townsend going into the warehouse was your brother. A squad car caught him speeding away from the area right after the explosion."

Lou went stiff. "Mike was there? You haven't arrested him, have you?!"

"We've been holding him for questioning," Steve said. "But he should be released within the hour. He claims that Ginger received a strange note advising him to come to the warehouse. That much is probably true; the cab driver said he saw the note. Mike also said that Ginger wanted him to be there to help him in case something went wrong. Apparently you weren't available or he would have gone to you."

Lou looked down, guilt sweeping over him at the news. "I was on a business trip," he mumbled. "I just got back around the time this must've happened."

He and Ginger were part of a legitimate business, in addition to whatever crooked things the two of them did on the side. Ginger suspected that the high-class, "legitimate" business was involved in shady practices itself, or he and Lou would likely never have been rehired after their release from prison. The only condition to their rehiring had been their relocation to the Los Angeles branch of the company, instead of returning to the London office. Ginger had found that strange, too, and Lou really had as well. But they needed the work and wanted their old jobs back, so they had accepted.

"It should be easy enough to check on where you were," Steve said. "But do you have any idea who might want Mr. Townsend dead?"

"No," Lou said honestly. "We have enemies, but . . . most of them are scared of Ginger."

Steve nodded. "You might be interested to know that the warehouse was insured by the same company that insured the Borland Diamond you and Ginger stole."

"Yeah?" Lou blinked in surprise, but frowned. "You don't really think they'd blow up their own warehouse just to get at him in revenge or something?"

"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Trevino," Steve sighed.

"I guess." Lou watched him. "You say Mike's going to be released?"

"Unless we find new evidence to hold him longer."

"You won't," Lou said emphatically. "Mike's . . . Mike was scared of Ginger too, but he would never go doing something like this. If nothing else, because he knows I wouldn't like it."

"The police don't like it either, no matter who wired those explosives," Steve said. "We'll find the killer. Goodnight, Mr. Trevino."

"Hey, wait a minute," Lou interjected. "The coat. . . ." He pointed to it, draped over the silent Sergeant Brice's arm. "Can I . . . can I have that?"

Steve's stern expression softened at the genuine sadness in Lou's voice. "Right now it's evidence," he explained. "But as soon as we don't need it anymore, it will be returned to you."

Lou nodded. "Thanks."

He shut the door as the police left, blank and numb. He crossed to the kitchen and sank down at the table, staring into the half-empty mug of water he had been drinking right before they had arrived.

"I never thought you'd go out like this, Buddy," he said softly. "Never."

He ran a hand through what was left of his hair. Maybe it wouldn't have happened if he had been with Ginger instead of Mike. And yet, that seemed unlikely, if the place had gone up the moment Ginger had entered. Nothing could have stopped it.

He glowered at the table. Thinking about _what ifs_ wouldn't change anything.

And who could have hated Ginger enough that they had been bold enough to do _this?_

Lou gulped down the rest of the water and stood. He wanted to see the scene of the crime for himself. He would launch his own investigation. And he wouldn't let up until he learned who had murdered his best friend.

It wouldn't bring Ginger back, but at least it would give him some satisfaction.

xxxx

Jim frowned deeply as he followed Stephen Kalifer to the bombing site. The fire engine and several police cars were still there, covering the area with a swarm of red and blue lights. A spotlight shone on what was left of the warehouse, and in the combined glows, Jim could see it wasn't much.

"Kalifer wasn't kidding," he muttered to himself. "And if somebody was meant to die, this Pandora's Box would sure do it."

Spotting a familiar face, he pulled off to the side and got out of the car. "Hey!" he called. "Dennis!"

Jim's long-suffering policeman friend tiredly sighed and turned. "I didn't think this was your kind of case, Rockford," he commented.

"Yeah, I know," Jim said in irritation, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But I've got a contract with the insurance company, and . . . you know. What they want me to check out, I have to check out, whether I like it or not."

"Uh huh." Dennis removed the pencil from behind his ear and scratched something on his notepad.

"I mean it! I'd rather be in bed right now. But, since I'm here, what have you got?" Jim took his hands out of his pockets, placing them on his hips.

"Okay." Dennis pointed at the rubble with his pencil. "The victim was an international jewel thief named Ginger Townsend. That's a guy, by the way. Dunno why they call him Ginger."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Ginger Townsend? But he's one of the guys I tangled with who stole the Borland Diamond, which . . ."

"Which happens to be insured by the same company as the warehouse. Yeah, I know," Dennis nodded.

"Well, do you think there's a connection?" Jim asked, at the same time wondering if Kalifer had known the victim's identity when he had called. Perhaps that was why he had been so particularly panicked. When it was Kalifer, it was hard to say. He would panic about the warehouse in general, even without knowing the victim had a connection to the company.

"We don't know," Dennis replied. "There could be."

He went to explain some more of what Lieutenant Drumm had told Lou, but Jim's attention was wandering as something caught his eye. He turned, squinting towards the water. Strange, he was sure he had just seen a figure moving over there, near the edge of the dock behind the police barricades. Now there was nothing.

"Rockford!" Dennis cried in frustration. "Are you even listening to me?!"

Jim started. "Huh? Oh. Yeah, yeah, sure, Dennis."

He continued to stare at the area as Dennis resumed his explanation. He knew he had seen someone, and from the shifty, cautious, even possibly pained movements, he doubted it was a police officer.

But who was it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two  
**

Lou had been pacing for what seemed the better part of an hour. He had realized that there were likely still police officers out at the warehouse, and he did not want to run into them when he launched his investigation. So he had been restlessly waiting, wondering when would be the right time to go out there.

When the key turned in the doorknob he jumped a mile. For the briefest, most foolish instant, he thought and hoped that it was Ginger coming back, that the police had been wrong about him being caught in the blast. But then Mike appeared and Lou sighed, tiredly and sadly. Of course it couldn't be Ginger.

Mike didn't live with them; he was too scared of Ginger and Ginger didn't particularly want to be around him that often, either. But he had a key, courtesy of Lou. He pocketed it now, as he advanced into the room.

"Lou?"

Lou could hear the hesitant quavering in his voice. "Hey, Mike." His response was resigned. "The police let you go right on schedule."

"Yeah." Mike stopped in front of him, shifting his weight. "I . . . I'm really sorry about Ginger. I mean, because I know you're really sad about him being gone."

"I know." Lou paused. "Mike, are you absolutely sure he's dead? The police found most of his coat, but nothing else, and I . . . I've been wondering if there's possibly any chance that he . . ."

"He was blown to bits, Lou." Mike looked down. "As soon as he went inside the warehouse, everything blew up. It must've been triggered by his weight or something. There's no way he could've made it out of there."

"How did it look when you went over to see?" Lou demanded.

Mike flinched. "Well . . . Lou, I . . ."

"You _did _go over to see, didn't you?!" Lou exclaimed, his stomach quickly sinking.

"I'm sorry, Lou." Mike still couldn't meet his brother's gaze. "I thought maybe the killer was hanging around watching and he'd come after me if I didn't get out of there."

Lou stiffened, grabbing his brother's shoulders. "You just left, even though Ginger could have still been alive?!" he cried.

"I didn't think he could have been!" Mike protested. "Honest, Lou. I wouldn't have run if I'd thought there was any hope. I'd know Ginger would kill me for sure if he was alive and I ran out on him!"

"And if it'd been me, what would you have done?!" Lou retorted. "Even if you thought there was no hope, would you have just run out on me? Or would you have looked anyway?!"

Mike cringed, both at his brother's overwrought voice and his words. Lou rarely ever got downright angry, either at Mike or at Ginger.

He was the only person who could yell at Ginger and not get threatened for it.

"I would've run over and looked," Mike whispered. "If it'd been you, Lou, I wouldn't have left, even if I thought you were dead."

"So you _did_ run out on Ginger." Lou let go of Mike and turned away. "He had to trust you because I wasn't here, and you let him down. I wouldn't blame him if he came gunning for you now."

"Lou . . ." Mike swallowed hard. "I really am sorry. I was scared. I wasn't expecting that explosion, and then I thought the killer could still be around, and I panicked and ran! Maybe I would have gone back, but the cops grabbed me before I could. Honest!"

Lou shut his eyes tight. He shouldn't be snapping at his brother, he supposed. Of course Mike would be scared. It was a simple, human reaction. And most likely, even if he had gone to look, there wouldn't have been anything he could have done. The fire would have filled the door and all the windows.

But still, it was that thought, the idea that Mike had fled when Ginger might have been alive and in need of help, that turned Lou's stomach and made him feel absolutely unable to cope with this situation. If Mike had said he had gone to look and hadn't been able to get through, it would have made Lou feel at least a little better, knowing that Mike had tried everything he could.

"Yeah, Mike," he said at last. "Maybe you would have gone back. We'll never know now." He turned, heading for the door. "I guess there's no point getting angry at you over it."

Mike blinked. "Lou? Where are you going?"

"I'm going out there to look around," Lou replied. "The police might be gone by now."

Mike hesitated. ". . . I'll come with you," he offered. "It's the only thing I can do now."

Lou glanced over at him. "Okay," he said. "Come on, Mike." He headed out the door, Mike trailing after him.

"Do you really think we'll find anything?" Mike wondered.

"I don't know," Lou said. "Probably not. But I'll feel better if I look it over myself."

Mike nodded. "I really am sorry, Lou," he said, quietly.

"I know," Lou said. "But that won't bring him back."

Mike looked down, guiltily. ". . . I never did get how you two hit it off so well," he said as they made their way to Lou's car.

"Sometimes I don't, either," Lou said. "But we did. And now he's gone." He paused as he opened the car door, a sick look spreading over his features. What he had just said was hitting him like a sack of bricks. "He's really gone." He sank into the driver's seat, slipping the key into the ignition.

Mike went around to the passenger side, feeling sick himself as he got in. He had known Lou would be devastated, but just knowing it still didn't quite prepare him for the reaction. And he couldn't help wondering if it really was his fault that Ginger was dead, even though rationally he was still sure that Ginger had been killed instantaneously in the blast.

He hoped the police would be gone for the night. It would be a lot more difficult to look around if they were still there.

xxxx

The police _were_ beginning to close up for the night, determining that they would either return to the station or catch a few precious hours of sleep before daybreak arrived and brought with it the need to continue the investigation of the site.

Kalifer, frustrated that Jim had immediately wandered off to talk to Dennis upon their arrival, was still there and still scolding him for not staying right with him.

Jim was mostly tuning him out, still confused and intrigued with what he knew he had seen behind the police barricade at the dock. He had finally asked Dennis if anyone was over in that section and had been told No, not that Dennis knew of. That area had already been examined and there wouldn't have been a reason for anyone to go back. Dennis felt that Jim had been seeing something blowing in the ocean breeze. Jim was not at all convinced of that. And he was trying to think of a good way to ditch Kalifer and go over there for a better look.

A car pulling up at the wharf made both of them jump a mile. "What's this?" Kalifer exclaimed. "The police are leaving. So are the reporters."

"Maybe this one is a late bloomer," Jim said in sardonic irritation. He wondered if he could slip away while Kalifer was occupied with the new arrival.

But, as it turned out, Jim found himself slightly interested when the doors opened and the Trevino brothers stepped out. He paused, raising an eyebrow. "Well, Lou. It's been a while. I haven't seen you since court. That was what, five years ago?"

"Less than that, Rockford," Lou muttered. "Our lawyers were pretty clever and got our sentences reduced, you know. And we still got out early, on good behavior."

Jim nodded, slowly. "For you I could buy that. Maybe. It's harder to buy from your trigger-happy friend. I'm sorry about him, by the way."

"Sure you are," Lou grumbled. "You don't have any reason to be sorry he's dead. And you . . ." He looked to Kalifer. "You'd probably dance on his grave, if there was enough of him left to put in a grave!"

Kalifer flinched. "I resent that, Mr. Trevino!" he snapped. "What's more, your friend's death has put all of Boston Fire and Casualty in a tremendous uproar. Your friend stole from us several years ago. Now he perishes in one of our warehouses!"

"Yeah, that makes a pretty juicy scandal, doesn't it?" Lou sneered. He moved to walk past the two of them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Kalifer demanded. "This area isn't open to the public. Or to the likes of you."

Lou gave him a sour look that made Mike shiver. "I'm not the public," he shot back. "I'm the only guy who even _cares_ about the man who was killed. I've got a right to look at the place where he died."

"He's got a point there, Kalifer," Jim spoke up. "I don't see why he can't take a look around. Of course, he'll have to clear it with Dennis first. And I suppose that's something you'll want to be present for as well."

"It most certainly is!" Kalifer exclaimed. "I don't see why anyone other than the proper authorities should be allowed to inspect the scene of the crime."

"Hey, maybe the police will welcome him taking a look," Jim shrugged. "He might come up with something they haven't thought of."

"I highly doubt that," Kalifer grumped.

By now an exhausted and frustrated Dennis had noticed all the commotion. "What's going on over here?" he called as he approached.

While Kalifer indignantly began to explain, at the same time Lou was trying to yell over him to explain, Jim took the opportunity to duck into the shadows. As he had hoped, for the moment no one noticed.

He paused to stare again at the remains of the warehouse. He had been allowed to see it up close and personal, along with Kalifer, when he had first arrived. It was a disturbing sight, really, no matter what one thought of the deceased. The floor of both the warehouse and the wharf had even been blown clean through at some points, revealing the water underneath.

Shaking his head, he quickly moved along. He wanted to get to the part of the dock where he had seen . . . whatever he had seen, before anyone showed up over here.

When he reached the spot in question and ducked behind a stack of crates, he frowned, deeply. Someone had been here, alright. Water had dripped all over the dock, as though falling from clothes. Not only that, but blood as well. That would go along with Jim's assessment of the mysterious person stumbling in a pained manner.

He bent down for a closer look. "Water and blood," he muttered to himself.

He peered over the edge of the dock, but there were no clues in sight. The water lapped calmly against the support beams of the pier, completely unconcerned by whatever had happened and whoever was hurt.

He looked back over his shoulder. The warehouse wasn't extremely close to this spot, but it wasn't so far away, either. And there was the matter of the missing floor.

He straightened, gazing thoughtfully back at the skeletal remains of the building. It was a weird and wacky idea, but what if someone had fallen through the floor when the building blew up and managed to swim to a better place to come out of the water?

Someone, of course, such as Ginger Townsend?

Jim frowned. Would Ginger just let this murder investigation go on, though? Maybe he wouldn't particularly care if the police were put to a lot of trouble on his account, but what about Lou? If he were alive, wouldn't he let Lou know, instead of allowing his only friend to suffer through the grief?

Would Ginger even care about Lou? Jim knew Lou cared about Ginger, but he really had no way of knowing whether it was reciprocated. Ginger didn't seem like the type of person to care about anyone.

He certainly had never been one of Jim's favorite people, firing on the moving RV as he had. He claimed in court that he wasn't trying to kill, but just to force the RV to stop. Maybe so, but Jim didn't know that he could believe Ginger would have left everyone alive after obtaining the missing diamond.

On the other hand, Jim _had_ seen some interesting things in prison, including how some criminals bonded rather closely. He didn't know if such friendships could endure the same as friendships between people who weren't on the wrong side of the law, considering how overly greedy and selfish most criminals were, but who knew. Maybe in some cases they really did.

He looked back to the blood. Maybe, no matter what Ginger had planned to do, he hadn't been able to do it. He, or whomever Jim had seen, had definitely been in pain. Maybe he had collapsed somewhere else or even fallen back in the water and drowned.

Jim cursed himself. He had tried to get over here as soon as he had seen the unknown person, but Kalifer had kept him busy and he had not been able to find an opening to slip away until Lou had appeared.

"Jim, what are you doing?"

He jumped a mile. Dennis must be feeling particularly discouraged tonight; he didn't even sound angry, just resigned and not surprised at all.

"Dennis, look at this," Jim announced, pointing to the water and the blood. "I told you I saw someone over here. And obviously I was right. Maybe some water could splash up here in some freak manner, but not this much. And there wouldn't be any blood. Someone was here, and he was hurt!"

Dennis stiffened, bending down for a closer look. "Maybe one of the officers got himself cut or something," he said. "There's a lot to get cut on around here."

"I'll give you that," Jim nodded. "But shouldn't they have got cut all the way back at the warehouse? I only see blood in _this_ spot."

Dennis looked back the way he had come. "Maybe they wrapped it and the bandage just came undone in this spot," he said.

"Yeah, but it doesn't explain the water," Jim said. "It's as though someone came up out of the water right here. Someone who was hurt, maybe seriously."

Dennis gave him a Look. "You're not saying that maybe it was our murder victim."

"It's possible, isn't it?" Jim argued. "And he might still be here, wandering around in a wounded daze."

"Or he could've fallen back in the water. Maybe he didn't even get out of it to begin with." Dennis crossed his arms. "We saw the busted floor too, Rockford. And we're getting some divers to come out here in the morning and start combing the place for Ginger's body. Or part of it, if there's any still intact."

"Fine," Jim shot back. "But I say that we should start combing the wharf right now."

Dennis threw up his hands. "Well, why not. The night's really shot by now, anyway."

Jim peered at him. "Hey, are you okay, Dennis? You just don't have your usual snap tonight."

"It's been a long day," Dennis replied. "This murder tonight was just the icing on the cake."

"It put a damper on my spirits too," Jim said. "Especially at two o'clock in the morning. By the way, what did you do with Lou?"

"I let him check out the murder scene," Dennis said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "A couple of officers are with him, of course. And your Mr. Kalifer. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think his insurance company really does have something to hide."

"Oh, they're just worried about being implicated in this mess," Jim said with a wave of his hand. "Trust me, Dennis, they're too set on being seen as completely upright to be anything but."

"Maybe." Dennis started to head back towards the warehouse. "Are you planning to tell Mr. Trevino your theory about his friend?"

Jim paused. "Let's look around first and see if there's any other evidence," he said. "I don't want to give him any false hope."

"You're feeling pretty generous," Dennis observed as they began to search.

Jim shrugged. "Well, why not? I feel kinda sorry for him. He seems genuinely upset." He frowned. "You're not saying you really think _he_ would have done it."

"You know the people closest to the deceased are always among the top suspects," Dennis replied. "Mr. Trevino is supposedly Mr. Townsend's only friend. Do you know how many 'only friends' have ended up being the worst enemies of all?"

"Okay, okay. Nevermind." Jim waved his hands. "I've dealt with a lot of those, too."

"And don't forget that it was his brother who was with Ginger when he went into the warehouse," Dennis added. "And he sure got out of there fast. He must have been going ninety when the squad car picked him up."

"He was probably spooked thinking he'd be next," Jim said. "But so you think maybe the brothers were in on it together?"

"Or maybe it was just Mike Trevino by himself," Dennis shrugged. "He and Mr. Townsend have a negative history. Ginger shot him in the past, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I had to be at all the court hearings and the trials because of my involvement with the case," Jim said in annoyance.

Dennis looked toward the warehouse, where Lou and the others could still be seen walking around. "You could be right, Rockford," he said. "We're not overlooking the idea that the killer could have been someone besides one or both of the Trevino brothers. It could be the insurance company or someone working for it. Or maybe it's an enemy we don't even know about yet."

"But you're going to keep tabs on the brothers, aren't you?" Jim said.

"The same as we will with all persons of interest," Dennis replied.

"Good. Then that's one thing I won't have to worry about doing," Jim said.

Dennis gave him a sidelong look. "What angle are you going to focus on?"

Jim shrugged. "Well, as much as I might like to believe the insurance company is at fault, I suppose I'll have to work with the idea that they're innocent. And I'll look for any enemies of either Ginger's or the company itself that could have set this up."

Dennis blinked. "You're thinking maybe Ginger was just being used as a pawn to cause trouble for the insurance company?"

"Why not?" Jim said. "It makes about as much sense as Lou or Mike rigging the bombs."

"Touché," Dennis sighed.

xxxx

Lou slowly walked around the perimeter of the remnants of the warehouse, a lump in his throat. The longer he stayed, the more haunted and in disbelief he was. The police were right—nobody could have survived this Armageddon. Not even the floor had pulled through.

"Hey," he said to one of the officers, "is it normal for a bomb to rip out the floor?"

"It depends on where it was placed and how much was used," was the reply. "In this case, the wharf itself was also damaged. Someone must have also planted explosives underneath it."

Lou shook his head, dazed and angry. "Who would want to kill Ginger so bad that they'd go to all this trouble? It's like they even wanted to cut off the one escape he might have! I mean, he could've fallen through the floor and into the water, maybe, the way it's set up here. But then he'd probably get caught in the other blast, too!"

The officer nodded. "This is a real doozy, alright. Someone wanted to make sure they got him, no matter what else they took out with him."

The second officer sighed. "There's not much more you can see here at this time of night, Mr. Trevino. We were just going to secure the area and leave. If you want to come back tomorrow, that should be fine."

"Huh? Oh." Lou straightened. "Yeah, sure. That's fine." He looked to Mike, who had just been staring at the sight in open-mouthed horror. "We'll get going now too. Come on, Mike."

Mike snapped to attention, following Lou into the shadows. "Lou, I don't know what to say," he said, feeling horrible all over again. "I'm sorry about Ginger. Really sorry. And I'm even sorrier I didn't have the courage to stick around after the blast."

Lou just shook his head sadly. "Don't be, Mike," he said. "You were right—Ginger was killed instantly. I guess after seeing this, I really hope he was, instead of staying alive and . . . suffering through it before dying later."

Mike looked down. "Are we really leaving?"

"We're going to pretend to," Lou asserted. "I'll go move the car so it's out of sight and we'll just wait for everyone else to pull out. Then we'll stay and look around for any clues. If there are any, they might be gone by morning."

"We probably won't even be able to see anything," Mike worried.

"We will if they keep that spotlight on," Lou replied.

It didn't take long to move the car to an out-of-the-way spot. And everyone was exhausted and wanting even an hour or two of rest—although Jim really had to talk a silver-tongued blue streak to get Kalifer to agree. The remainder of the cars pulled out within twenty minutes.

Lou slowly got out of the car when he was sure every vehicle had left. "Okay," he told Mike. "Let's start looking."

It really seemed an impossible task, one that likely would not improve come morning. But Lou was determined, and so for the next hour, Mike trudged after him all over the site.

Mike shivered in the cool breeze. A light fog was rolling in from the ocean, and that, combined with the knowledge of what had happened here, made Mike unable to stop thinking of the possibility that the whole wharf was now haunted by Ginger's ghost. Ginger would be a very vengeful spirit, possibly more frightening in death than in life. Lou might not even have any influence over him anymore.

That was when Mike stumbled across a fallen stack of crates, and something limply hanging out from under them that made him squeak in alarm.

"Lou . . ." His voice caught in his throat and he had to swallow hard and try again before he could be heard. _"LOU!"_

That brought Lou running. "What is it?!" he demanded.

Mike looked very close to being sick. "The explosion didn't blow up all of Ginger." He pointed downward, at a bloodied hand.

Lou went stiff. "How could the police have missed this?!" he exclaimed. "And how could it be so far from the warehouse?!" Feeling ill himself, he started to remove the top crate. "Mike, you have to help me get these things moved."

Mike looked horrified. "You're really going to see what's under there?"

"I have to," Lou retorted. "No matter what it is." He threw the crate aside and went for another.

Swallowing again, and wiping his sweaty hands on his pants, Mike tried to help. "I don't know if I can stomach it," he said.

"You can look away, Mike," Lou said.

He half-wished _he_ could, as well. Grotesque and stomach-turning images were dancing through his mind the further he dug into the stack of crates. Maybe the hand was all there was. Or an arm. . . . Maybe something else. . . .

"Oh God," Lou choked out at the thoughts, not even fully aware he was speaking aloud.

Mike was already looking away. "What is it?!" he exclaimed.

Lou paused and looked over. "Nothing yet," he amended. "I was . . . just thinking."

He shut his eyes tight as he pushed aside the last two, oblong crates. Then, trying to resist the urge to cover his eyes with a hand, he peered down at the dock.

And turned sheet-white.

"Ginger!" he cried out in disbelief. _"Ginger!"_

Mike dared to open his eyes. And stood, gaping, as Lou knelt down beside a lifeless and silent body, but an entire one nevertheless.

"How?" Mike breathed in disbelief. "Lou, he went in that warehouse. I _know_ he did!"

"He's soaking wet," Lou exclaimed, running his hand along Ginger's neck and spine to check for damage. "He must've fallen into the water and then struggled to climb back on the dock. But how did he get under here?!"

Mike ran his tongue over his lips. "He's not . . . alive, is he?" he quavered. It was a stupid question, of course. Ginger was dead. Maybe he had fallen into the water dead and someone had dragged his body up. Which still begged the questions of who and why.

Having decided that there was no spinal damage, Lou gently but firmly took hold of Ginger's shoulders, turning him onto his side. "Ginger?" he whispered. "Can you hear me? It's me—Lou." Not receiving a response, Lou gave the limp form a desperate shake. "Ginger, come on, Buddy. Curse me, yell at me, give me a creepy stare. Do _something._" He could not find that there was breath or a heartbeat; Ginger had probably suffocated under the crates, if he hadn't already been dead when he was put under them. But Lou was not willing to give up. He had believed that Ginger was not only dead, but in fragments, and now to discover that one was not true, he could not let go of the possibility that the other wasn't true, either.

Now moving Ginger onto his back, Lou bent down in desperation to administer artificial respiration. It was awkward, and Ginger was cold and unresponsive, but Lou persisted.

Mike laid a hand on Lou's shoulder after watching him struggle with the task for several minutes. "He's gone, Lou. We'd better call the police back and get the morgue."

Lou shook his head. "Not yet," he insisted. "Ginger, please wake up. Open your eyes."

For a moment there was still silence. Then, to Mike's utter disbelief, Ginger coughed and gasped, his eyes weakly opening. "What's . . . what am I doing here?" he mumbled.

Indescribable relief and joy washed over Lou. "You're alive, Buddy. That's the most important thing."

Ginger rose up but then sank back down, dizzy and disoriented. "I got out of the explosion . . . fell in the water. . . ." He closed his eyes, raising a weak hand to his forehead. "I couldn't stand up."

"Did you hit into the crates?" Lou asked.

"Crates?" Ginger opened his eyes, and Lou could see the familiar spark of anger in them. "No. I collapsed next to them, barely conscious. A muffled voice said I wouldn't be found alive. They pushed the bloody crates on top of me!"

"What?!" Lou stared in disbelief and outrage. "Did you recognize the voice at all?"

"I wasn't awake enough," Ginger said darkly. He looked like he might be about to pass out again. He weakly reached and gripped Lou's arm. "But I'll find who did this. They'll be dead."

"We'll talk about it later," Lou said. "Ginger, you're hurt bad. I'm getting you out of here. Mike, help me."

Mike looked worried, but he scrambled to get on Ginger's other side. Slowly he draped Ginger's left arm around his shoulder and tried to support the wounded man with an arm at his back. Lou was doing the same thing on Ginger's right side.

Ginger clearly did not like being carried, but there was little he could do to protest. "No hospitals," he growled. "No one can know I'm alive."

"We'll take you home for now, Buddy," Lou promised, hoping the area was really as deserted as it seemed to be. "But if we can't help you, I'll have to find a doctor. No arguments." His grip and his voice tightened. "I thought you were dead. Now I'm going to fight to keep you alive."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: This chapter makes it clear that the time period is the present day, which is what I do with all fandoms unless they're absolutely a period piece, like a Western. But I don't think it changes anything, really.**

**Chapter Three**

Vern St. Cloud chomped into a large subway sandwich as he waited at the red light. It had been another long and frustrating day of struggling to work with a practically dead case and desperately seeking another, more profitable case. As had been the issue for the near-thirty years he had been on the job as a private investigator, money was tight. He really wondered, especially on days like this, how he had ever managed to stay afloat as long as he had.

He scowled as the newscaster on the old car radio again repeated the main stories of the hour, including the explosion on Wharf 33. Some wealthy jewel thief had been murdered. And the word was that Jim Rockford was already investigating.

Vern didn't know how the reporters always managed to get hold of their stories when they did, but he could easily believe that this one was true. Rockford always had a good, steady caseload. It was the main thing that burned Vern up with jealousy whenever he thought about his fellow private eye. Rockford hadn't been on the job nearly as many years as Vern, but he did so well for himself. And Vern, who had been in the business for probably at least fifteen years longer than him, was constantly struggling to get by.

He had to sneer a bit at the thoughts that were coming to mind now. He was grateful to Rockford for helping him get his license back, when he and other private eyes had been deliberately manipulated into situations where they lost theirs, but he could not make heads or tails of Rockford's suggestion that they be friends. Aside from the fact of Vern's cynical, dog-eat-dog philosophy on the world of private investigators, he knew darn well that Rockford just plain didn't like him. When he had pinned Rockford down on the statement that he didn't like what was happening to his friends, Rockford hadn't been able to admit to feeling that Vern was one of those friends. He had been at a complete loss for words, only able to give Vern a silent look that conveyed more than words ever could.

Oh, Vern knew he wasn't a very likable guy himself, and that he most certainly contributed to why Rockford felt as he did, but as far as he was concerned, he wasn't the only one at fault. He and Rockford simply could not see eye to eye and he doubted they ever would or could.

And that was only a small part of the overall problem. In Vern's experiences, any P.I.s he had tried to befriend or work with had betrayed him in the end, with his very first partner being the first to have done so. The trend had continued until the present day. Vern had a good reason for feeling that in his line of work, it was every man for himself.

Yes, Sir, Vern St. Cloud would always be a lone wolf. The only recent time he had ever gone back on his good sense and tried partnering with someone—his nephew—it had turned into a disaster. The kid had proved to be far too zealous about their work, even murdering a politician who had wanted to pass a bill that would have made their investigating a lot more difficult. That had been the last straw. Vern was not going to work with anyone else, ever again.

A car pulled alongside his and he casually glanced over, making a mental check of the passengers. Two up front and one in back, with the guy in the front passenger side reclining in the seat and looking pained. Then the light was green and the car was speeding on, leaving Vern to go through the semaphore as well. He set the sandwich aside to focus his attention on driving.

He frowned, troubled. Something about that guy's damp and windswept blond hair and his specific features reminded Vern of someone.

Some jewel thief, wasn't he?

A guy who had stolen a diamond that Vern had hoped to find and hadn't been able to?

Of course, Rockford had been the one to get the reward on the thing.

Nevermind that for now. The jewel thief. He was . . .

Vern nearly slammed on the brakes of the car. "That guy," he gasped aloud, his mouth still full of bread and lettuce and cheese. "He's . . . he's dead!"

They had been announcing his death on the radio for the last several hours. He had been killed in the warehouse explosion. And now Vern was seeing him riding in cars in the middle of Los Angeles!

His knuckles white, he sped off as quickly as the speed limit would allow. "I've gotta get some sleep," he moaned to the car. "Now I'm starting to see things that aren't even there!"

xxxx

Lou looked over at Ginger as he stopped the car back at the house. Ginger's eyes were closed, but Lou doubted he was asleep. When he opened his eyes upon feeling the car cease to move, they were bleary—but Lou attributed that more to Ginger's injuries than to sleep. Ginger had passed out at least once in the car but had revived moments later.

"We're home now, Buddy," Lou said now.

Ginger sighed, wearily. "Good." He closed his eyes again, unsure how to drag himself up from the seat.

Lou got out and came around to the passenger side. Opening the door, he reached in and carefully got an arm around Ginger's back. With his other hand he supported Ginger's left side and tried to lift the other man out of the car.

Ginger came to life, placing his hands on Lou's arms and trying to balance himself enough that Lou wasn't doing all the work. As his feet brushed the ground, he stumbled, crashing into Lou and gripping at his shoulders to keep from falling. He cursed under his breath, frustrated as well as embarrassed.

"It's okay," Lou tried to tell him. "You're hurt. It's natural to fall around a bit."

"I detest being so bloody _weak,_" Ginger growled in retort.

"Well, I'd rather have that than you being _dead,_" Lou shot back.

It still seemed unreal, he thought as they headed up the walk and to the porch. Ginger was slumped against him, trying to walk and limping along the best he could. He was not scattered all over the warehouse ashes; he was solid and _alive._ Some creep had tried to kill him twice—once with the explosion and once with the heavy crates—but had failed. And they probably would have succeeded the second time, if Lou hadn't been searching and had found Ginger.

He frowned. He still wondered why the police hadn't spotted the crates and Ginger's hand. The only explanation he could think of was that at least one of the officers had been in on the plot, maybe even having pushed the crates onto Ginger, or at least, noticing he was trapped and doing nothing to help. The police were not stupid; they were very efficient, so it was quite odd that it had been Lou and not an officer who had located the wounded man.

Mike trailed behind them as they climbed onto the porch. Ginger had said nothing about Mike and Mike was not eager to bring up the fact that he had fled from the scene. He wondered how badly Ginger was hurt, but he didn't dare ask that, either. He didn't want to call any attention to himself, especially if Ginger was in a mood to simply ignore him.

Lou fumbled with the key, finally pulling it out of his pocket and inserting it in the door. As it creaked open, revealing the living room beyond, he tried to hurry inside with Ginger as quickly as possible. Some of their neighbors were frequent window-peepers, and it would not do to have them see that Ginger was alive.

Mike followed, shutting and locking the door behind them. He supposed he might be needed to help with Ginger, albeit he certainly wasn't looking forward to the task. The longer he stayed, the more chance there would be for Ginger to bring up what Mike had done at the warehouse.

He didn't have to wait much longer.

"You left me." Ginger's voice was flat and matter-of-fact. And of course he wasn't addressing Lou.

Mike stiffened. "I thought you were dead, Ginger," he protested. "Honest, I did."

Ginger grunted, too much in pain to say much more. Lou helped him to the stairs and Ginger leaned against him, moving slowly and keeping his free hand on the wall.

Mike trailed behind them, wanting to leave now but not daring to. "I'm glad you're alive," he said helplessly. "Lou was awfully upset when he thought . . ."

"Mike, why don't you go get some bandages and stuff?" Lou interrupted. He could feel that Ginger was tensing up. Being around Mike could sometimes have that affect on him, and the last thing he needed right now was more stress. Lou knew it was the last thing Mike needed right now, too.

Mike was only too relieved to comply. "Sure, Lou," he said. He escaped down the stairs and into the ground floor bathroom.

Lou sighed. "I'm sorry, Ginger," he said. "But Mike really wasn't trying to do wrong by you. He was just freaked out when everything suddenly blew up. He thought maybe the killer would see him and try to get him too."

"He's unreliable," Ginger muttered. "I shouldn't have gone to the warehouse when I knew he was the only one available."

They reached the top of the stairs and Lou helped Ginger into his room. "Do you have any idea who did this to you?" Lou asked.

Ginger leaned against him while beginning to shakily peel off his drenched suit coat. "Not especially." He paused. "Although there was one odd thing." He wavered, unable to stay standing even with assistance, and Lou tried to help him to a chair. Ginger collapsed into it, shaking, cold and in pain and dizzy.

"Maybe you shouldn't try to talk," Lou said, bending down to unbutton Ginger's vest.

"I have to say this. If something still happens to me, I want you to know." Ginger looked into Lou's eyes, his blue eyes filled with determination, Lou's brown with concern and worry. "There were crates in that warehouse that didn't belong."

Lou blinked. "What are you talking about, Ginger? How would you know they didn't belong?"

"They were stamped with another warehouse company's name," Ginger replied. "In fact, I believe it was the name of the company that had the shipment that was stolen two weeks ago."

Lou stared. "Are you saying you think someone in that warehouse was part of the hold-up?"

"Possibly. I only got a split-second look at those crates before everything exploded in a burst of fire. I wouldn't have noticed them at all, except that they were right next to the door." Ginger reached up, loosening his tie and moving to unbutton his shirt.

Mike appeared in the doorway, holding a first aid kit. "Um . . . are you ready for this?" he asked, hesitant.

Lou looked over. "Yeah," he said, at the same time Ginger said, "No."

Lou started. "What do you mean 'No'?!" he exclaimed. "Ginger, you're bleeding in at least one spot. You're probably burned, too."

"I'll be ready for it after I get cleaned up," Ginger grunted. "I'm not going to lie in bed after having fallen in the ocean. And there's no sense bandaging my wounds now when the materials would only get wet."

Lou slapped his forehead. "Ginger, you can't take a shower," he argued. "You can barely stand up. You'll fall in the tub!"

"Then I'll sit in the tub," Ginger responded.

Mike just set the kit on the nightstand, not wanting to join Lou in being a dissenting voice. "If you don't need me then, Lou, I guess I'll . . ."

"We might still need you," Lou interrupted, still having visions of something going wrong and needing assistance to handle it. "If it's not any trouble, Mike, please stay."

Mike swallowed hard. "Okay, Lou," he said quietly. He really wished to escape as soon as possible, but he wouldn't go if Lou felt he should stay. He wanted to do something more to try to make up for having left Ginger. If he had stayed, maybe he could have helped Ginger out of the water, and him being further hurt with the crates would not have happened.

Ginger was starting to rise now, holding onto the back of the chair as he did. He wobbled, prompting Lou to reach for him.

"Ginger, there's no way this is going to work," Lou declared.

"Just get me in there," Ginger said. "I won't do anything stupid. I know I can't stand up."

"You'd better not try anyway." Lou's grip tightened. "I am not going to lose you. I thought you'd been blown into little tiny particles! Do you have any idea what it would be like, to think that about someone you care about?!"

Ginger averted his gaze. "No," he said. "I don't."

Mike tried not to think that it was because Ginger simply didn't care about anyone, rather than because Ginger had simply never been put into the position Lou had been in. Lou believed Ginger cared about him. And who knew, maybe he was right.

Lou sighed. "What am I saying? Of course you don't. And I sure wouldn't wish it on you, either." He helped Ginger limp into the hall and then the bathroom. "I'll be right out here if you need something," he said as he shut the door.

While he waited, he leaned against the wall and took out his phone, deciding that he might as well try to do a little detective work during the interval. And so, pulling out the keyboard, he tapped in first the name of the company that had recently been robbed of their shipment and then the name of the company that owned the exploded warehouse.

He shook his head at what he soon learned. The companies were known rivals in the storage business. Not just that, but they seemed to be vicious archenemies.

And Jim Rockford had worked for them both, at one time or another.

Lou glowered at the miniature screen. There was that name again—the private eye who had caused their car to tip over and them to be arrested. Rockford always seemed to turn up where he was least expected or wanted.

He sighed. The guy had actually been a help tonight, trying to see to it that Lou was allowed to view the murder scene. He had probably had an ulterior motive, but still, it was appreciated.

A thud made Lou jump a mile. He looked to the bathroom door, ready to call in and inquire about Ginger's well-being. But before he could even open his mouth, a familiar, gravelly British voice was growling at him.

"I dropped the soap. That's all."

Lou slumped against the wall, not wanting to admit to his worry. "That's good," he said. "That it was just the soap, I mean."

He was going to be a bundle of nerves until this mystery was solved.

And heck, until Ginger decided he'd had enough of the tub.

xxxx

Jim frowned as he drove home—much against Kalifer's wishes. If he'd had his way, they probably would have stayed for the last meager scraps of the dark night. But Jim had prevailed, convincing Kalifer that they needed to get some rest and be in top condition when the divers arrived in the morning.

Something, however, was nagging at Jim. Something that he wasn't sure what was. It involved Lou Trevino, but wasn't about him coming to the site in the first place. Perhaps it was more how Lou had so easily agreed to make his exit and then had vanished with his brother. Jim had the feeling they might have stayed. But why? And had they found what they had hoped to find?

Dennis had told him that there would be a guard at the site until the police could get back there in the morning. He had also arranged for Jim to get the guy's phone number, to be used only if absolutely necessary. Maybe Jim would call him and see if he found everything to be in order. Then Jim would just have to hope the guy was responsible enough to look around and double-check everything, to be sure.

Picking up his mobile phone, he began to dial.

"Hello?"

Jim frowned. The guy sounded like his mouth was full of donut. "Uh . . . yeah, this is Jim Rockford. Boston Fire and Casualty hired me to look into the warehouse explosion. I was wondering if you've seen a particular fellow out there in the last hour or so—forties, balding on top, kind of dark brown hair?"

"Oh sure." A gulp of donut and coffee finally made him more audible. "He was here, with some younger guy following him around."

"That would be his brother. Did you see what they did or where they went?"

"They were heading for their car, so I just figured they were leaving when everyone else did." A pause. "There was one funny thing, though."

Jim perked up. "What funny thing?"

"The crates!" Now the guard sounded annoyed. "They were scattered all over the place—some empty, some full. Somebody obviously knocked them down. And since I'm sure it wasn't the police, I'd say it's more likely that it was one of those brothers. Or both of them. And of course they couldn't be bothered to pick them up again. That's always how it is when people make a mess; they won't clean it up themselves. They just leave it for somebody else to take care of! I saw it all the time when I worked in a grocery store."

"Uh huh. Yeah, that's terrible, how inconsiderate some people are." Jim hoped that by agreeing with him, he could get the subject switched back to something relevant. "Now, about those crates. Where were they?"

"In the back and off to the side of the warehouse," said the guard. "I guess it was some new shipment they hadn't moved into the warehouse yet."

"Wouldn't it normally be in front in this case?" Jim returned. "Maybe it was mostly the empty crates from some old shipment, going to be discarded."

"And the full ones just got mixed in by accident?"

"It's possible."

"Well, maybe."

"Or maybe someone was planning to steal them. Look, I've asked the insurance company to get me a list of everything that was being stored in the warehouse. I should have it by morning, and then maybe I can come out and have a look at those crates, see if they match anything on the list."

"Be my guest. It's not up to me to pick up the crates, so I just left them right where I found them." Another pause. "And you know, something else funny. There was blood on a couple of them, and on the wharf right by them. Whoever knocked them down must've been stupid enough to get himself cut on them."

Jim froze. "Oh really." Now his mind's gears were spinning and turning much quicker. He and Dennis had not found any trace of Ginger or anyone else stumbling around wounded on the docks. Maybe this guard had just found a trace. "Was the wharf wet in that same general area?"

"Funny thing. You know, it was. You really are good at this detective business!"

"Sometimes I've just got the knack. Say, how much water was there?"

"Enough so that maybe someone could have been lying there. He probably tripped over the crates, not even remembering he'd knocked them down!"

Jim conceded the point and hung up. Something very strange had been happening at the wharf tonight. This whole business about the crates was one more oddball occurrence. Why hadn't anyone heard them all crashing down? Or if not that, why hadn't anyone seen them, at least?

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was quite a drive from the wharf to the cushy place where Ginger and Lou lived. Lou might still be up.

Jim nodded to himself. He would swing by there instead of going straight home as he longed to do. By now he was just curious enough to want to follow up on this hanging thread.

xxxx

Ginger had somehow managed to fight his way through having a shower, as long as he had not stood up. But his arms were weak—and stinging, where he was wounded—and his legs were far worse. As frustrating and as mortifying as it was, he needed help getting out.

"Lou," he called flatly. "Bring me a towel."

Lou shoved his phone into his pocket and immediately went for a thick towel from the linen closet. Just as he moved to open the door, the doorbell rang downstairs. "What the . . ." He turned, staring back towards the balcony railing in disbelief. "It's past four in the morning! Who'd be calling at this hour?"

Mike emerged from where he had been awkwardly staying in Lou's room. "Should I answer it?" he wondered, doubtfully.

Lou hesitated. "Find out who it is," he said. "But don't let anyone in the house right now."

"Sure, Lou," Mike nodded, heading down the stairs.

Lou sighed and entered the bathroom, afraid that if he made Ginger wait, his independent friend might just get impatient and struggle to get out on his own.

Ginger was still in the tub, although he was at the side, clutching the edge with his hands, and looked like he was ready to attempt climbing out on his own. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"I'm not sure," Lou admitted. "Somebody's at the door." He spread the towel and draped it over Ginger's shoulders and down his back, affording him some dignity before putting his arm around Ginger's back and trying to help him out of the tub.

"Lou?" Mike was calling up from the bottom of the stairs. "It's that Rockford guy."

Ginger swore under his breath. "What does _he_ want?"

"He said something about the crates," Mike replied. "I guess someone found them scattered all over the place."

Lou and Ginger exchanged a silent look, sending and receiving instructions and information. Then Lou looked towards the open door again. "Is he in the house?"

"No, he's on the porch."

"Good. Stall him. Tell him _I'm_ taking a shower or something. And about the crates—tell him we don't know anything about them."

"Okay." In a moment they heard the front door open and close.

Ginger sighed in exasperation as he limped across the floor, back to his room with Lou's assistance. "It's going to be difficult to play dead here," he remarked.

"Yeah." Lou frowned. "But it'd look weird if either Mike or I disappear right now, taking you somewhere else. There's no way you can go off on your own when you're hurt this bad."

Ginger had to concede the point. "I'll stay here and we'll try to make it work," he said grudgingly. "I wouldn't trust your brother to take me anywhere, anyway. In fact, you'd better get out there and find out what he's telling Rockford."

Lou lowered Ginger onto the bed and the wounded man collapsed into the mattress. "I need to take care of these burns and cuts," he protested.

"They'll keep," Ginger retorted.

Lou studied the severity of the injuries, and Ginger's impatience, and finally decided to do as Ginger wished. It should just take him a minute or two to send Rockford on his way, if handled right.

He stood, heading for the door. "I'll be right back," he said. "Don't try to move, Ginger. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," Ginger mumbled.

Lou ducked into his room, retrieving a robe to pursue the illusion that he had been having a shower. He threw it on and tied it as he hurried downstairs and opened the door.

xxxx

Jim had been having a rather heated discussion with Mike. He had not bought the story that they didn't know anything about the crates. And now that Lou was appearing, Jim wasn't sure he looked much like he was coming from a shower.

"Well, hello, Lou," he greeted easily. "I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but when I saw the lights were still on I thought you might be able to answer a few questions for me."

"It's not enough that some creep has to go blowing Ginger to Kingdom Come; detectives have to come poking around here in the middle of the night," Lou scowled. "Rockford, there's nothing I can tell you about what happened. I wasn't even here until it was already happening!"

"I know," Jim nodded. "Oh, I still need to check out your story about being on a business trip, but I'll take your word for it."

"The police probably think Mike or I did it, don't they?" Lou frowned. "I know how they think."

"You know how it is; they have to include you guys as persons of interest," Jim said. "But for the record, _I_ don't think you did it."

"Thanks," Lou muttered.

"Hey," Jim said suddenly, "I was telling your brother here about some crates the guard found all messed up. I figured you might have seen them when you were looking around, but Mike says you didn't."

"That's right," Lou asserted. "We didn't see any messed-up crates."

"What about crates perfectly in order?" Jim returned.

"No crates at all," Lou insisted. "Look, Rockford—we were looking for evidence of who did this, or even . . . well, it sounds horrible because it is. We were also looking for any trace of Ginger's body. We didn't find either. And a bunch of old crates sure wouldn't be catching our eyes instead."

"No, I guess they wouldn't," Jim conceded. "Well, I'm sorry to bother you folks so late. I'll leave you alone now." He started to turn away, then paused. "And I _am_ sorry about Ginger, whether you'll believe it or not."

Lou watched him head down the steps and to his car. Once he had got in and was driving off, Lou went back in the house, Mike trailing after him.

"Do you think he believed it, Lou?" Mike asked in concern.

"I'm not sure," Lou sighed. "Maybe he did and maybe he didn't." He shut and locked the door. "I'll worry about it later."

He headed up the steps and back to Ginger's room. "Ginger?" he called. "He's gone now. Ginger?"

But there was no reply. Ginger had either fallen asleep or passed out on the bed, still covered in just the heavy towel.

Lou shook his head, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "Mike, bring that first aid kit now," he said. "I'll fix up his wounds and let him sleep." He gently reached for Ginger's right arm to examine the damage. Ginger did not stir at the movement.

Mike obediently brought the kit, setting it on the bed near Lou. "Are you just going to let him sleep like . . . like that?" he exclaimed, turning a bit red.

"No, of course not," Lou retorted. "But first things first." He dug into the kit for a cleansing pad. After sterilizing his hands, he began to work on the cruel burn on Ginger's forearm.

Mike stood near the doorway, crossing his arms. "I don't know how he could even stand to be showering, when he's hurt like that," he proclaimed.

"You know Ginger," Lou said. "He's stubborn."

"Sometimes I wonder if he even feels pain," Mike mumbled. "Sometimes he . . . he just doesn't seem human."

"He's human, Mike," Lou said quietly. "Maybe he doesn't always show it, but he is."

Mike just nodded. "I'll take your word for it, Lou."

Ginger stirred slightly, jerking his arm as Lou finished cleaning it. But then he settled down again, not trying to pull away.

"You're going to be okay, Buddy," Lou said. "I'll make sure of it."

Mike turned away. Ginger was lucky to have someone who cared about him as much as Lou did.

He just hoped Ginger appreciated it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: Mike Nelson from **_**Sea Hunt**_** makes a cameo. Also, Max Bleaker from the **_**Perry Mason**_** episode **_**The Travelling Treasure**_** wandered in. Ray Norman is from the **_**Cannon**_** episode **_**Hear No Evil.**_** Coley Rodman is from a show that won't make sense without knowing my backstory for why he's here, which isn't important to this story.**

**Chapter Four**

The divers had been going through the water under and around the damaged warehouse for what seemed ages. And although every now and then one of them returned with a piece of crate or a part of a crate's contents, they did not find any particle of a human body and it seemed unlikely that they would.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Lieutenant," chief diver Mike Nelson said to Lieutenant Drumm as they stood on the dock. "If there was anything left of that man's body, it probably washed out to sea a long time ago."

"Yes, it probably did," Lieutenant Drumm acknowledged. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Nelson. You've been doing good work."

"I'm glad to help out. But I wish the circumstances were different." Mr. Nelson paused. "Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

"Maybe take one more sweep of the area," Lieutenant Drumm said. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Nah, I wouldn't mind. I'll get another tank and go down again." Mr. Nelson shuffled off, his wet flippers leaving strangely shaped footprints on the dock.

Jim was standing near enough to hear their conversation. He frowned, pondering to himself.

If Ginger had possibly survived the explosion and was the man Jim had seen staggering around the dock last night, there was no way he could have gone far without help—or hindrance. The man who had left so much blood in various spots around the dock was badly hurt, no question about it.

Maybe he had been attacked by whoever had wanted him dead. They might have killed him for certain and taken the body with them so it wouldn't be found.

On the other hand, suppose, just suppose, he had been found by a friend. Lou would take the best care of him that was possible. And if he was afraid of the killer trying again, he would likely keep pretending he believed Ginger was dead in order to preserve his life.

Even if such a thing were true, how would Jim go about finding it out? Lou was certainly not about to confide anything in Jim. That whole meeting from early that morning had been very strange and very fake, at least the part about Lou having come out of the shower. Oh, he had made a small effort to make it look like he had, but Jim doubted very much that he would go putting his dress shoes on after coming out of the shower at four in the morning. Considering he had pulled an all-nighter, he would be getting into slippers and preparing for bed.

And why would Lou pretend he had been showering, anyway? Just to try to make a good excuse for why he hadn't answered his door? If he hadn't been showering, what _had_ he been doing that had prevented him from answering?

"Oh, excuse me," Jim called, seeing Max Bleaker, the other diver. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Max, an ex-convict who was working with Mike Nelson to get a fresh start on free life, looked up. "Sure," he said, "but I don't think I'll be much help."

Jim walked over to him. "Suppose, just suppose, that guy survived being blown up," he said. "What do you think his chances would be at getting out of the water without drowning?"

Max raised an eyebrow. "You'd probably be better off asking Mr. Nelson," he said. "Explosives are one of his specialties.

"But just speaking in general, I guess it'd really depend on the guy. This Ginger Townsend—is he the kind of guy who has a really high endurance rate?"

Jim shrugged. "I honestly couldn't say. Tentatively I picture him to be a man with steel nerves, but I could be wrong."

Max nodded. "And even a guy with a low endurance rate could still make it through something weird like this if he had a lot of dumb luck on his side." He crossed his arms, gazing out at the ocean. "I suppose that if the water was calm, and if his hands hadn't been too badly damaged, he wouldn't have too much trouble climbing out. The real question would be, where would he go after that?"

"Yes, that's certainly a big question there," Jim agreed. "There's blood at several places around the dock. I've pointed it out to the police, but I'm not sure what they think of it."

"I saw some of that," Max said. "Maybe somebody just cut himself investigating, but on the other hand I guess it's possible it's Townsend's blood."

"If it is, there's a good chance his best friend knows where he is right now," Jim mused. "Only he'll never willingly talk."

"Maybe you'll just have to confront him point-blank on what you think," Max said. "Although if Townsend really is dead, it'd be pretty cruel to get his friend's hopes up like that."

"Yeah, I know," Jim frowned. "But I'm supposed to figure out what happened, any way I can. Say, I wonder what the odds are that Ginger could have faked his death in the first place." He had idly considered it before but then had rejected the idea, after what Mike Trevino had said about everything exploding as soon as Ginger had entered.

It was the fact of the whole floor blowing up that really made him wonder, though. Suppose it hadn't been the work of an amateur setting too many charges, but an expert who had _wanted_ both the floor and the wharf to go up? Maybe Ginger had managed to leap through a hole and survive, even if he was burned in the process.

If something like that were possible, he would next wonder if Lou was in on it. Ginger might not tell him because he would doubt if Lou could believably pretend that Ginger was dead while knowing he wasn't. But on the other hand, Ginger might want the help of his only friend to pull off a plan like that.

And why would he want to do such a thing in the first place? Someone must want Ginger dead for him to think that the thing to do would be to make them believe someone else had beat them to the punch.

One thing was sure—he did not want to mention this idea to Kalifer if he could at all avoid it. Kalifer would almost certainly decide it was true and start pestering Lou with the threat of suing him for damages to the warehouse. And if Lou wouldn't have any idea what was being talked about, Jim didn't want to burden him with an angry Kalifer.

. . . Well, not unless that would make him more willing to tell Jim what had _really_ happened, of course.

"Hey," Max called.

Jim started, realizing he had allowed himself to get carried away in his thoughts. "Oh, sorry. Yeah?"

"I was saying this mess doesn't look like anybody was faking anything," Max said. "It looks stone cold genuine."

"It does, doesn't it," Jim mused. "Well, it probably is. I'm just letting my imagination run away with me."

"I did find this, when I was down just now." Max removed a card from the top of his diving suit.

Jim took it, frowning. "It's some kind of electronic cardkey," he mused.

Max nodded. "It could be Townsend's, it could be the murderer's, or it could be something entirely unrelated."

"I'll take it to the Lieutenant," Jim promised. "Thanks."

Max watched him go and then turned, moving to go back into the water with Mr. Nelson.

Lieutenant Drumm looked up as Jim approached. "What have you got there?" he demanded, somewhat sternly.

Jim held up the cardkey. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "That diver, Max Bleaker, brought it up."

He wasn't sure what to make of Lieutenant Steve Drumm. Most of the police he ran into were stern and severe, as Steve appeared to be, but they also were often just plain angry by his presence. Steve only seemed doggedly determined to find a solution to this mess.

And he didn't know Jim, just what he had heard from other officers. He said he didn't hold with gossip. But maybe once they got to know each other better, Steve would decide that Jim got on his nerves the way most police did.

Steve adjusted his reading glasses and reached for the cardkey now, turning it over and over in his hands. "It's for a room at the Oak Bridge Golf Club," he announced. "Maybe if it's taken back there and matched with the room, we'll find out who was using it around the time it disappeared."

Jim nodded. "Oh say, Lieutenant, what do you think about those fallen crates I told you about?" he queried.

Steve glanced up. "I don't know what to think," he said. "I wouldn't think they were significant at all, except for the blood all over them. Sergeant Brice has a police photographer there now, taking pictures."

"Do you think there's any chance that Ginger survived?" Jim persisted.

Steve paused. "There's no evidence that he did, or that it's his blood all over the dock. But I _would_ like to test the blood against his blood type. And I think it's time for another talk with Lou Trevino, too."

"Do you mind if I come along?" Jim wondered. "Since I've been hired to figure this thing out too and all."

Steve shrugged. "Come along if you want," he said. "Just don't get in the way."

"Hey, I've been good so far, haven't I?" Jim countered.

"You have," Steve acknowledged. "I just don't know yet whether it's going to keep on that way or not." He closed his notepad and removed his glasses. "We'll talk to Mr. Nelson again, but if he doesn't have anything new for us, we'll go."

"That's fine with me," said Jim.

xxxx

Ginger stirred as consciousness returned, bringing with it all of the pain of the past night. Grimacing, he raised a hand to his forehead. Sleep had been deep and dreamless, and it was not pleasant to be brought out of it into his current reality.

He turned, gazing around the room. Lou was there, dozing in a chair across from the bed. Mike was not in sight, but he might have stayed the night instead of going home. Ginger did not recall anything after collapsing on the bed while Rockford had been waiting downstairs.

He only realized now that a loose sleeve was hanging near his face. He dropped his arm, gazing at the nightclothes. Unless he had managed to dress himself in his sleep, Lou had done it for him. And he could feel the slight pull of the bandages on his arms and chest and back.

Sometimes he really wondered, as did everyone else, why Lou cared about him. But the reverse was true, also—he wondered why _he_ cared about Lou. He was aloof and cold, caring mostly only for his own whims and goals. If anyone else's agreed with his for a while, that was fine and he was willing to work with them for as long as it suited them both. They would part ways when the time came.

But with Lou, for some reason, they had met, worked together, and decided they liked it and each other enough to stay together. And they had, through legitimate channels and some more capers. When they had ended up arrested and in prison, they had spent most of that time together as well. Ginger had largely been on good behavior behind bars, but the other convicts they had tried as his cellmates had still been so leery and even scared of him that the warden had found the only real solution to keeping the peace was to keep him and Lou together.

It made sense that they had decided to stay together after their release. But the questions still puzzled Ginger.

Lou started awake, perhaps sensing that he was being watched. "Oh! Ginger?" He perked up, seeing his friend was conscious. Standing, he came to the side of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"In the aftermath of being blown up and crushed, not too badly," Ginger grunted.

Lou sighed, sinking into the chair next to the bed. "I thought I should stay with you for a while, in case you needed anything," he explained. "You dropped off to sleep so fast."

"And apparently it was good for me," Ginger said. "I feel far more like myself today."

"I can tell." Lou hesitated. "Do you know how bad off you really were? When I first found you, I mean."

"I don't even recall being found, so how could I possibly know?" Ginger retorted in irritation.

"You were dead."

Ginger froze. "What are you talking about? _Dead, _of all the bloody rubbish . . ."

"You were clinically dead." Lou gripped Ginger's upper arm where he knew there wasn't a wound. "You're just lucky I was able to bring you back."

Ginger did not like being grabbed and would ordinarily have brushed Lou aside, but his words made him freeze. "You're saying I actually was . . ."

"They wanted to kill you and they did." Lou's voice was bitter now. He would not ordinarily grab Ginger, but he had wanted to make his point.

". . . I see." Ginger's eyes darkened. "They'll regret what they tried to do to me."

"I know, Ginger. You said that last night."

Ginger scowled, wondering what else he didn't remember. ". . . Is Mike still here?" he asked.

"I think so," Lou said. "He was staying in my room for the night. Well, what was left of the night." He glanced at the clock. "It's almost noon."

"Won't it seem odd that you are absent from work?" Ginger mumbled.

Lou shrugged. "They said I could take a day or two off when I got back from the trip, and . . . I don't know, maybe they'd figure I'd be doing it for sure after what happened."

"I suppose." Ginger paused. "You realize that when my body isn't found at the wharf, whoever knocked those crates on me will realize that I was retrieved, most likely rescued."

"I know," Lou nodded. "I was thinking about that after Rockford left."

"If there are two different persons after me, with separate goals, it's possible that the one would believe the other found me," Ginger said. "But if it's the same person, or if there are two working together, they will think of you and eventually come here."

"Maybe I could ask for a few days off and I could take you somewhere to hide out," Lou suggested.

"Perhaps." But Ginger was not convinced it was the best option. "Or perhaps we may have to confide in the authorities that I am alive. At least that would mean we wouldn't be working entirely on our own in this mess."

"I guess." Lou was hesitant. "Do you really want to bring the police in on things, Ginger?"

"Not especially. But when we don't know who's behind this or how many there might be, taking them on by ourselves might not be the most intelligent idea."

"That's true," Lou frowned. "But you wouldn't think there'd be more than one or two. And what if one of the officers is one of them? I can still hardly believe that none of them noticed you were under those crates."

Ginger's eyes narrowed. "You do have a point. And we would have no way of knowing which officer it might be, if any." He paused, pondering on the problem. "We may have to push the idea of my death all the harder. You could come forward and say you and Mike took my body out from under the crates. That would satisfy whoever trapped me and might be wondering why the police didn't find me. You could put on a show and say I was dead and start arranging a funeral."

Lou nodded. "And I'd swear vengeance on whoever wanted you dead so bad." A bit of a dark edge had slipped into his voice. "That's about how I felt when I thought they'd got you. And they could still get you, if we're not careful."

Ginger frowned slightly as he watched his friend. It was not usual to hear Lou sound dangerous. Lou coordinated with Ginger in intimidating people for information when necessary, and seemed to like it, but he was mild compared to Ginger. That was the Lou Ginger knew and liked. Ginger wasn't sure he would like it at all if Lou lost himself in his anger.

"They could," he finally said, "but I don't have any intention of allowing it to happen.

"As far as swearing vengeance, though, yes, I believe that would be quite effective. Just as long as you don't go doing something foolish in your quest."

Lou looked down. "I wouldn't," he said. "I can't think I'd go off half-cocked and get myself in trouble . . . well, unless . . ." He sighed.

"Unless I still end up perishing." Ginger studied Lou, silently thinking. To be the source of someone losing himself and possibly getting into a dangerous or even a fatal situation . . . was he truly worth that?

He knew he wouldn't be, to anyone other than Lou.

Nor would he say what he was going to say to anyone other than Lou.

"Your life is valuable," he said gruffly. "If something happens to me, I want the murderers caught, but not at the expense of your life."

Lou blinked in surprise, looking up at him again. Ginger was dead serious; he meant every word.

"If you swear out vengeance, let it only be an act to convince our enemies that I'm dead. If something happens to me anyway, don't go off planning to gun them all down. One of them could so easily pick you off in your rage and anger."

Lou averted his gaze. "I can't say I wouldn't feel like gunning them all down."

"Of course you would. But . . ." Ginger reached out, grabbing Lou's wrist. "Swear to me that you won't actually do it."

Lou started, both at the strong grip and the intensity in Ginger's eyes.

"Swear to me!"

"Alright," Lou conceded, not wanting to upset Ginger. "Okay, Ginger. I swear it."

He just hoped there would not prove a time when he would have to keep that promise.

Ginger relaxed into the bed, slowly releasing Lou's wrist. ". . . There is another problem," he mused.

"What's that?" Lou exclaimed, wondering if he wanted to know.

"If you announce that you took my body from under the crates, the police will want to examine it." Ginger crossed his arms. "You cannot say that I was badly disfigured from the explosion and that you've had my remains cremated. Whoever knocked the crates on top of me will know that I was not disfigured. What's more, there would be the problem of producing a record of the cremation."

Lou's stomach dropped. This was a definite problem. And he really did not like even discussing the details of it. Ginger was alive and relatively well. It made him sick to envision how far they might have to go in pretending he wasn't.

"Maybe we'll have to take a chance and trust at least some of the cops," he said. "They could arrange all of these things. And if we said we thought one of the cops was in on it, they'd know to be careful about who they talked to, even among their own."

"Yes, but are the odds really in our favor that we would not choose our enemy?" Ginger pointed out.

"Oh, I don't know," Lou groaned. "There has to be someone. In stir, didn't some of the guys talk about the cops who were honest as the day is long?"

"Yes . . . yes, they did." Ginger gazed up at the ceiling. "I remember a Lieutenant Drumm in particular."

"Drumm!" Lou perked up. "Ginger, he's the guy who came to see me last night. He's the one who told me you were . . . gone. . . ."

Ginger looked to him. "And what did you think of him?"

Lou shrugged. "Oh . . . he seemed like an honest cop to me, but I guess a lot of times the ones on the take can fool you."

"Find out what you can about him," Ginger instructed. "We may have to do as you are suggesting and bring at least one or two officers into our confidence."

"I'll get right on it," Lou promised as he stood. "And you rest."

Ginger leaned back into the pillows, remaining silent as Lou headed for the door.

Mike met him in the hall. "What was going on in there?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "I saw Ginger grabbing you and wanting you to promise him something." He shivered, showing that he had found it very unsettling.

"Ginger was _worried_ about me, Mike," Lou answered, walking towards the stairs. "He didn't want me to go running off chasing after the rats who did this, if . . . if they still manage to kill him."

Mike frowned, hurrying after him. "It's kind of hard to picture Ginger being worried about anyone," he admitted. "Even though I was hoping he cared about you, at least."

"He cares," Lou said firmly.

"Okay," Mike said slowly, still not convinced.

xxxx

The Oak Bridge Golf Club was a fancy place at the foothills of the mountains. Driving up to it, Jim could see across the valley for miles.

He frowned at how big the grounds were and how many cars were in the front parking lot. It looked like a real high-falutin' spot, something he could imagine being filled with snobby, snooty people.

Just what he didn't need right now.

He parked the Firebird and got out, following Lieutenant Drumm and Sergeant Brice up the walkway and to the main doors. "So . . . have you guys ever been here before?" he wondered.

"Sometimes," Steve replied.

Jim raised an eyebrow. "On official business?" he exclaimed, incredulous.

"Let's just say they've had some problems," Steve grunted.

"Let's just say," Jim said with a confused shrug, shoving his hands in his pants pockets.

Inside the main lobby, the receptionist was clattering away at her computer and a man wearing a black cowboy hat and a red bandanna was slouched in one of the plush green chairs, petting a silver Persian cat lying in his arms.

Jim glanced from the computer to the cat. He could hear the cat's motor better than the computer's.

"Hello, Mr. Rodman," Steve greeted the man, who looked up at him in surprise.

"What are you doing here, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"We're wondering what you can tell us about this." Steve held out the cardkey, which Rodman took and looked over. The cat pawed at it.

"You already know it's one of ours," Rodman frowned. "What do you want me to tell you?"

Jim stepped forward. "Well, you see, we're just wondering what it could have to do with the guy who got blown up on the docks last night," he said. "The divers found it below the site."

"Yeah?" Rodman looked more interested now. He stood, setting the cat on the floor. "Hey, Georgiana." The receptionist looked up. "Find out when this cardkey disappeared and who had the room right before it happened."

"Sure." The girl resumed her clattering. Before long she was looking up at the group that had gathered by the marble counter. "We lost it five weeks ago," she reported. "The guy who had the room and took the cardkey with him registered as . . ." She made a face. "John Smith."

Jim threw his hands in the air. "Great. Of course. It would _have_ to be John Smith."

Rodman snarked. "I remember the guy. I didn't like him. Ray didn't, either."

"Ray Norman owns the club," Steve explained to Jim. "Mr. Rodman here is his chief of security and his best friend."

"Coley," Rodman shot back. "Look, I'll get Ray. Maybe he can tell you more."

"I sure wish someone could," Jim grumbled.

Coley wandered off down the hall and soon returned with a tall, blond man. "Hello," the newcomer greeted, "I'm Ray Norman." He held out a hand to Jim, who shook it. "Coley tells me you've found a missing cardkey, Lieutenant Drumm?"

"That's right." Steve pointed to it on the counter. "Your receptionist says the room in question was being used by a John Smith right before the card disappeared. Do you remember what this John Smith looked or acted like?"

Ray paused, thinking. "He was unpleasant," he said slowly. "Always wanted his own way. He wasn't snobbish, exactly. . . . More like a bad-tempered mobster."

Jim sighed in exasperation. "A stereotypical bad-tempered mobster?"

"I suppose," Ray shrugged. "He had dark hair . . . tall . . . and he had this thing about striped ties. He said he wouldn't wear any other kind."

"He probably stands out when he goes clothes-shopping then," Steve remarked. "Tell me, do you recall if he ever mentioned anything about Ginger Townsend?"

Ray blinked in surprise. "No . . . no, that doesn't sound familiar at all."

"What about Lou or Mike Trevino?" Jim interjected, leaning on the counter with an arm.

"Lou Trevino, yeah," Coley spoke up. "He talked about that guy a couple of times."

Steve came to attention. "What did he say?"

"He said he couldn't reach Lou on the phone," Coley said with a frown. "And he was pretty mad about it."

"What'd he want with Lou?" Jim wondered.

Ray looked troubled. "I remember him saying to his bodyguard or whoever it was with him that Lou was going to pay for some real or imagined wrong he had caused him. Coley and I went over to their table and I told him I wouldn't stand for that sort of talk at Oak Bridge. And I was ready and willing to call the police if he was planning to harm someone."

"He laughed and said he was just talking," Coley grunted. "We didn't buy it, but we didn't hear any more of that kind of talk while they were here, so there wasn't much we could do."

Steve nodded, thoughtful. "Would you be willing to come down to the station and go through our mug books?" he queried.

"Yes," Ray said slowly. "But I don't think either of them were from around here."

"Probably not," Steve sighed. "However, it wouldn't hurt to try. Sometimes we get lucky."

"When do you want us?" Coley asked.

"Preferably sooner rather than later," said Steve. "Sometime today, perhaps?"

Ray and Coley exchanged a look. "Alright," Ray agreed. "In the afternoon, maybe."

"Thank you." Steve turned to go.

The cat meowed, leaping onto the counter.

"Okay, okay," Coley grunted. "I can't pay attention to you twenty-four-seven."

Ray smiled in amusement as Coley began to pet the cat.

Jim moved to leave as well. "You never can tell who's going to be a cat person these days," he commented.

"She grows on you," Ray said.

Jim watched Coley lean on the counter while the cat nuzzled and rubbed against him. "I guess," he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Ginger had been dozing for an indeterminable amount of time when the sound of the doorbell suddenly awoke him. He started, displeased with the interruption, and looked up in annoyance. "Now what?" he muttered, rising on an arm as he gripped the pillow.

He had been waiting for Lou to return and tell him what he had learned about Lieutenant Drumm. Now he supposed that would not be forthcoming any time soon, unless Mike answered the door instead.

He could hear footsteps downstairs, heading for the door, and then an abrupt stop. The footsteps came back, up the stairs, and into Lou's room next to Ginger's.

"Lou!" Mike exclaimed. "Rockford is back. And this time it looks like the cops are with him!"

"What?!" Lou came to the doorway. "Well, go down and find out what they want!"

"Yeah, but . . ." Mike hesitated. "What should I tell them if they start asking about Ginger?"

Lou sighed. ". . . Just answer the door and tell them I'll be right down," he said.

"Okay." Mike headed down the stairs again.

Lou appeared in Ginger's doorway, moving quietly so as not to wake him. Upon seeing him awake and staring at him, Lou hurried in, encouraged.

"Well?" Ginger demanded.

"From everything I can find out, Lieutenant Drumm is the farthest thing from a dirty cop," Lou reported. "And . . . I don't know, that might be him downstairs."

Ginger frowned, considering the information. "Find out who's down there," he said. "If it's Drumm, then perhaps you had best rely on your own discretion to determine if he should be told the truth."

Lou hesitated. "You're leaving it up to me?" he queried. "Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure," Ginger retorted. "But you suggested that it might be necessary to bring the police in on this. I agreed that perhaps it was."

Lou finally nodded. "Okay, Ginger. I'll go down and see what's going on. I told Mike to tell them I'd be right down, anyway."

He hurried out of the room and to the stairs, instantly noting that it was indeed Lieutenant Drumm, and Sergeant Brice, who had come with Jim. Brice was watching him as he came down the stairs, silently thoughtful.

Lou was used to Ginger being quiet, but seeing it from a policeman was altogether different. A shiver ran up his spine.

"Hey there, Lou," Jim greeted. "How are you doing today?"

"How do you think I'm doing?" Lou retorted, once again grabbing for the cover of his act. "What kind of a question is that, knowing that I just lost my best friend last night? I'm not feeling any better about it now than I was then. Maybe worse."

"Okay, nevermind. I'm sorry." Jim barreled on before Steve could get a word in. "Say, we were just wondering. Do you know a guy who calls himself John Smith? Tall, dark hair, has a thing for striped ties?"

"He was staying at the Oak Bridge Golf Club a few weeks ago," Steve finally managed to insert, his clipped tone indicating his irritation with Jim. "The owner and the chief of security both heard him make threats against you."

Lou paled a bit. "I know a guy who likes striped ties," he said. "But his name isn't John Smith; it's Jackie Delano." He looked from Jim to Steve. "And what does him being here threatening me have to do with anything? You're not saying you think maybe Ginger was offed just to get back at me."

"It's possible, isn't it?" Steve replied in all seriousness.

"His cardkey from the golf club was found in the water by the warehouse," Jim said.

Lou took a step back, his alarm and sickened horror now not an act. "Oh no." He ran a hand over his face. "If he or his muscle really was there, then maybe . . . maybe Ginger really was killed because of me."

Mike, who had been standing by, now looked stunned.

"_Was_ he killed?" Steve asked, quietly.

Lou started. "What are you talking about?" he snapped.

"Lou, there was a whole lot of blood on the docks," Jim said. "And on some crates. It looked like a slaughterhouse. We got to thinking that maybe Ginger survived the explosion and was taken away by somebody. Maybe you."

Again Lou looked from him to Steve, not sure what to do. Ginger had felt that they might have to bring Drumm into things, but he had not said anything about Rockford. And it wasn't as though he could run upstairs and consult.

"We got him alright," he said at last. "Or what was left of him. He was dead. Stone cold dead!" He clenched a fist, his eyes flashing. He was still not entirely acting. The memory of finding Ginger lying dead under the crates was fresh on his mind.

"And you just took his body with you instead of calling the police?" Steve frowned. From his expression, he didn't believe Lou was telling the truth.

"Yeah, we did," Lou retorted. "Do you have any idea what it's like, to find your best friend lying dead? And now to realize that you're indirectly responsible for it?!"

"Yeah, Lou," Jim shot back. "I know what that's like. You're not the only guy to have a friend keel over like that. I've had a lot of close friends die through the years. Sometimes it's been because of me, some case I'm working on. And it hurts, Lou. It _hurts. _Maybe there's a worse feeling out there, but I can't think of one off the top of my head."

Lou turned away. "Well . . . then you know what I'm going through. Maybe you know why we took his body."

"Where is it now?" Steve wanted to know.

Lou shrugged. "We turned him over to a guy we know who runs a morgue. I couldn't bear to look at him any more, all pale and bleeding and burned. . . ." He swallowed hard.

"Name and address?" Steve was taking out his notepad.

Lou froze, trapped. Mike came to life to try to help.

"Why do you guys need that?" he wondered. "You don't really think we're lying and that Ginger's wandering around somewhere alive, do you?"

"We think you have him here, alive," Steve said bluntly. "You know his life is still in danger, don't you? If they find out that he didn't die in the explosion, they'll come after him again."

"He _did_ die in the explosion," Mike protested. "We found him and he was dead. You heard Lou."

"Then I want the name and address of the mortician!" Steve practically boomed.

". . . Fine," Lou said at last. "I'll give them to you."

"If you give us a fake name and address, Lou, I'll be back here faster than you can think up another one," Jim warned.

Lou scowled. If Drumm had come alone or with Brice, Lou probably would have revealed the truth. And maybe he still should; he knew that Rockford meant business. The more he stirred up the air where Rockford was concerned, the more trouble he and Ginger were likely to have because of it.

"They're not fake," he retorted, going to the pad of paper on the living room desk. He scribbled down the name and address of a mortician he really did know. He could always call the guy and beg for a favor in playing along.

On the other hand, that would require bringing him at least partially into their confidence. And did he trust the guy enough for that?

"Well?" Jim was suddenly right next to him, leaning on the wall with a hand. "What's the hold-up, if this is for real?"

Lou tore off the piece of paper. "There's no hold-up," he insisted. "I was . . . I was just thinking about the arrangements I have to make. For the funeral and everything. You know."

"Does Mr. Townsend have any family?" Steve spoke up, sobered.

"Not that I know of," Lou said honestly. "I'm the closest thing to it." Which would make Mike Ginger's family also, when he thought about it. It was a very strange thought, one that he doubted either Ginger or Mike would appreciate.

As Jim reached for the piece of paper, Steve got to it first. "You know Neal Glassel?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I know a lot of people," Lou said defensively, with a shrug.

"We'll check this out," Steve said. "But if you _are_ lying, Mr. Trevino, you can bet on us _both_ coming back."

Brice glanced at Jim, as if to confirm that Jim felt the same. He was soon satisfied of that fact and again looked away.

"I'm sure you will," Lou retorted.

He could hardly relax when they left. And he wanted to consult with Ginger before he called Neal. He hurried up the stairs, Mike trailing after him.

"Lou, what are you going to do?" Mike exclaimed. "You're leading them off on a wild goose chase!"

"I know that!" Lou shot back. "I didn't know what to do. Ginger and I didn't talk about Rockford knowing everything, just Drumm."

Ginger was resting on the bed when Lou came to the doorway. He looked over, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "You didn't tell him?" he greeted.

Lou sighed. "Rockford wouldn't go. I didn't know what to do about telling the Lieutenant when Rockford was hanging around. And so I . . . I ended up feeling so backed into a corner that I fell back on that idea we had about saying we found you dead. And they asked where you . . . where I had you now, so I had to give them the name of that mortician we know."

"Neal Glassel?" Ginger frowned. "I don't want him to know anything about this."

"Then what should I do?" Lou exclaimed. "Call them back before they drive away?"

Ginger paused, thinking. "I would trust Rockford more than Glassel," he said. "Glassel is a weak germ that could so easily be smashed under pressure. Rockford is many things, but weak is certainly not one of them."

Lou nodded. "Mike, go get them back, quick," he ordered, knowing Mike could run faster than he could.

Mike, standing at the top of the stairs, looked hesitant. "You're sure, Lou?"

"Ginger is sure," Lou retorted. "That's enough, isn't it?"

Not wanting to cross Ginger on anything, Mike swallowed hard and turned to leave. "Yeah," he said. "That's enough."

Lou sighed, hearing Mike thump down the stairs and to the door.

Ginger frowned as he watched. "What is it?" he demanded.

Lou came and sank onto the edge of the bed, weary with the remembrance of the news their visitors had brought. "Do you remember Jackie Delano?"

"The hoodlum you went to school with?" Ginger returned. "Of course."

"They found a cardkey he'd used and taken from a golf club in the water under the warehouse." Lou rested his hands on his knees. "He always said he'd get back at me. Apparently he was out here threatening me just a few weeks ago when he was at the club."

Ginger crossed his arms. "So perhaps I wasn't targeted by one of my enemies at all," he mused, "but one of yours."

Lou shook his head, throwing his hands in the air. "Ginger, I'm so sorry. I had no idea that something like this might happen. If it's because of that creep that you were almost killed . . ."

"Don't tell me you're blaming yourself now," Ginger frowned. "It isn't your fault if that bloated fool wishes to hold a grudge over something so petty."

"Maybe not," Lou conceded. "But if things were the other way around, would you really not blame yourself at all if somebody who hated you struck out at me?"

Ginger averted his gaze. "Certainly not. It would be completely illogical."

Lou wasn't entirely sure Ginger was telling the truth, but it wasn't a critical subject and he let it drop. Instead he looked towards the doorway, increasingly nervous. "What's taking them so long out there?" he muttered.

"Perhaps he didn't make it in time and he's gone chasing after them," Ginger suggested.

"I didn't hear any cars starting up, though," Lou said. He stood, going to the doorway. "I'm going to go down and see what's going on."

Ginger offered no objection.

xxxx

The main thing that was taking so long was that Jim had stumbled across a trespasser just as he was heading to his Firebird. Displeased, he snuck around the hedges near the wall of the house and suddenly clamped a hand on the other person's thick shoulder. "Hello, Vern," he greeted, even as the man being addressed gave a cry of surprise.

"Didn't anybody ever teach you not to sneak up on a guy like that?!" Vern wailed. He spun around, his eyes showing that he was more afraid than angry.

Jim folded his arms. "Well, sure," he said. "My mother. But my mother didn't know I was going to grow up to be a private eye. We have to sneak up on people a lot of times. Isn't that what you're doing right now?"

Vern scowled. "No!" he retorted. "Well . . ." He faltered, conflicted. "I . . . I was just trying to figure out if that guy might hire me."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Lou Trevino? You're thinking _he_ might hire _you?_"

"Why not?!" Vern snapped. "I mean, he's gonna wanna know who snuffed out his friend, right?"

"Right," said Jim. "But he's probably going to want to head up the investigation himself. And if you want to try approaching him anyway, aren't you going about it backwards? The door's that way." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "If I didn't know better, Vern, I'd say you were trying to find a way to climb the house and look through the upstairs windows."

"Why would I wanna do that?!" Vern exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands. "I'm not a Peeping Tom!"

"I think you're just about anything you have to be, if the situation calls for it," Jim shot back, giving the other man a sidelong, unimpressed look.

"I'm not trying to spy on the Trevino guy's private life!" Vern insisted. "Just because I think I see him riding around in cars with dead guys, I . . ."

"You think _what?_" Jim's hands went to his hips.

Vern flinched. "Nevermind."

But Jim was not going to let go of this juicy piece of information. "No, Vern, not nevermind!" He grabbed at Vern's tie as he leaned in close and intimidating. "Now you're going to tell me exactly what you mean by 'riding around in cars with dead guys', or I'm going to make sure Lou knows you're out here fooling around, even if I have to drag you all the way across the yard and inside the house by your cheap blue tie."

Vern quaked. "You can't do that, Rockford!" he cried. "He probably has Mob connections or something and he'll have me gunned down on the spot!"

"Lou, with Mob connections?" Jim scoffed. Well, actually he didn't know whether that might be true, but Lou had never struck him as the type to be personally involved with the Mob. "I guess he might have a Mob friend or two," he mused, hoping to further scare Vern into a confession.

"Sure!" Vern exclaimed. "And that creepy British friend of his packed enough firepower to wipe out a dozen of me! Rockford, please! Have a heart!"

"What did you see?" Jim demanded, tugging on the tie again.

"Well, don't choke me or I'll never tell you!" Vern fumed.

Jim released him and stepped back. "Alright, Vern. Start talking."

Vern drew a shaking breath. "It was late last night, see? And I was just coming home from the office, chowing down on an after-midnight snack, when this light blue car pulls up right next to me at the light. So I look over, just wanting to see who I was riding with, you know? And I saw Trevino in the driver's seat, looking awfully tense. Some other guy was in the back. His brother, maybe. And the dead guy was in the passenger seat, just chilling!"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Just _chilling?_" he echoed in disbelief.

"Okay, so maybe not chilling," Vern shot back. "He looked like he was in a lot of pain. But maybe the lighting was bad and I couldn't see straight. Maybe he was dead, like he's supposed to be. So I came out here to look around. Don't you see, Rockford? I've gotta know if I'm crazy or not!"

Jim stared at him. "I can tell you right now, Vern—you're crazy as a loon. But . . ." He paused, glancing up at the house. "Maybe not about seeing Ginger."

"Yeah?" Vern perked up. "You really think I saw him?"

"Maybe," Jim acknowledged. "Lou said he and Mike took Ginger's body away."

Vern paled. "So he really is . . ."

"That's what Lou says," Jim said.

It was at that moment that Steve and Sergeant Brice came around the side of the house, Mike in tow. "What's going on here?" Steve frowned. He raised an eyebrow. "Vern St. Cloud?!"

Vern stiffened, shooting an accusatory look at Jim. "First you and now Lieutenant Drumm too?! What kind of a convention is this?"

Jim was amazed. "You two know each other?"

Steve sighed. "Let's just say we've had occasion to meet in the past."

"Look, I was just coming to pay my condolences," Vern stammered. "If this is a bad time, I'll come back later."

Steve regarded the house, pointedly. "You picked a round-about way to get to the front door," he said.

"I . . . uh . . . I got lost in the fancy neighborhood!" Vern bluffed. "I'm going now. Really." He started to inch past Jim, Steve, Brice, and Mike, who all stared at him but made no move to stop him.

No one spoke until Vern was safely in his car and definitely driving off down the street. Steve turned, looking expectantly to Jim. "I'm guessing there's a lot more to this story," he said, his tone flat.

Jim shrugged. "Oh . . . Vern just thought he saw Ginger in Lou's car last night and now he thinks he's off his rocker."

Steve sighed. "Well. Mike here says that Lou's had a change of heart."

"You mean now he _doesn't_ want us to go chasing after this Neal Glassel?" Jim supplied.

"Uh huh." Steve started to walk back around to the front of the house. "Let's go inside and see what else he has to say."

xxxx

Lou was tensely waiting by the time they came through the front door. "What took so long?" he exclaimed, wringing his hands.

"Sorry, Lou," Mike sighed. "There was some nosy guy out there."

"Vern St. Cloud," Jim supplied. "Another P.I. He claims he saw you riding around with Ginger's body last night. Only he's not sure it _was_ just a body."

Lou nodded, wearily. "Can I trust that anything said in here won't go past this house?"

Steve frowned. "That would depend on what it is, Mr. Trevino. If it's something that needs to go past this house, then I can't make that kind of a promise."

"Look, Lieutenant." Lou stared him right in the eyes. "I don't know whether a police officer could have been involved with what happened to Ginger. Mike and I dug him out from under a stack of crates somebody had pushed on him. We realized he was there because we saw his hand. And it just doesn't make sense to me that one of those highly trained police officers could've missed both him and the crates while you were all looking around there."

Steve's expression had turned very grim as Lou spoke. At last he said, "And you're telling me this because you think you can trust me?"

"You and your Sergeant, yeah. Everybody in stir said you were just about the most upright cop they could think of. They figured Sergeant Brice was the same." Lou looked to Jim. "And what about you, Rockford?"

"You probably can't even imagine the lengths I've gone to and the trouble I've gotten into just trying to protect my clients," Jim remarked. "Only you're not my client; I'm working for the insurance company to find out what happened. I'm supposed to report everything to them that has any bearing on the case."

"Even if it means a man's life?" Lou answered, darkly.

Steve stiffened. "Ginger's?"

"If he was alive, he'd sure be in danger," Lou said. "Just supposing he was, and that a dirty cop really was part of things. What would you do?"

"I'd do everything I could to weed out who it might be," Steve said. "The last thing the police and the people need is a dirty cop on the force."

Lou hesitated, then nodded. "I think you mean that."

"He does," Sergeant Brice spoke. Jim was half-amazed to hear the quiet man actually use his voice. "And I'd do everything I could to help him."

"Neither of us would talk, if Ginger's life was in danger," Steve said firmly. "If there really is a dirty cop who helped in trying to murder Mr. Townsend, we wouldn't want to draw his attention."

"You'd better not," Lou said. He looked to Jim, who sighed.

"If Ginger really is alive, then of course I'll keep quiet about that for as long as possible, even if it means going against what my client wants," Jim said. "I technically don't have to report about anything until all the facts are in."

Of course, Kalifer would want periodic reports anyway. And, Jim knew, he was going to be furious that Jim had gone out to the docks today without calling to let him know what time to be there.

That little omission had been accidentally on purpose; Jim had not felt like dealing with Kalifer so early in the morning. Nor had he really wanted Kalifer to know about Jim's theory of Ginger being alive. Oh, not that Jim believed Kalifer might be guilty, but just in case there was some maverick in the insurance company who was involved, Jim felt that the less Kalifer knew right now was better all around.

"What about the guy Mike said was nosing around outside?" Lou persisted. "Vern whatever his name is. Would you end up telling him anything?"

"That jarhead? No!" Jim retorted. "I said I'd keep it quiet and I meant from everybody. My lips are sealed!"

Again Lou hesitated. "Okay," he finally said. "Come with me then." Praying he was doing the right thing, he started up the stairs. He could hear the others all trooping up after him.

Ginger was not surprised when Lou stepped into the room with the others. Jim and Steve were not terribly surprised at this point, either, but there were some curious flickers in their eyes.

"Well," Jim said, "I know I thought you were probably alive, Ginger, but you're looking a lot better off than I was picturing you might."

"You just can't see the wounds," Ginger grunted. "But I agree with you. It almost was a great deal worse." His eyes narrowed and darkened. "I want to know who is responsible."

"So do we," Steve said. "Mr. Townsend, I hope you're not planning to enact your brand of justice on the culprits. Let us try to find out who it is."

"And will I still be alive by then?" Ginger said dryly. "What will you do to protect me? And Lou, if he is also in danger?"

Steve sighed. "You could both be moved to a safe-house," he said. "Or, if you're insistent on staying here, a police guard will be provided for you."

Ginger looked to Lou, silently asking whether Lou had told Steve about the dirty cop. Lou nodded and looked back to Steve.

"What's the way that would draw the least attention to us from the other officers in the precinct?" he asked.

Steve sighed. "Well, that's hard to say," he admitted. "If I set you up with a guard, it would have to be Brice here, if no one else is to know. But if I take you to a safe-house, there's a record of all the ones in our jurisdiction and who's in each one. I guess you could be listed under phony names, but it's always possible that someone would look over the record and wonder what the story was behind you two and why no one in the precinct seemed to know."

"I would prefer to stay here, if at all possible," Ginger interrupted. He wanted to be available to take part in solving the mystery, instead of being shuttled out of the way. And he also just wasn't that confident that a safe-house would be the best solution, considering the possible involvement of someone on the police force. Steve's words only made him wonder all the more.

Steve nodded. "It's possible that if Lou keeps up the act that you're dead, it won't be questioned," he said. "On the other hand, if they don't buy it and come out to try to finish the job for sure, we might be able to catch them."

"Your keyword is 'might'," Ginger pointed. "And such an attempt could end with I or Lou lying dead." He had not ruled out the possibility that the only way to catch them would be to deliberately serve as bait, but he did not like the idea of the danger it could bring to Lou. He knew Lou would not leave him, even if Lou's life was on the line.

"You're right, it could," Steve agreed. "But we would give you every protection possible."

Ginger preferred the thought of protecting himself with his shotgun. Having been arrested for a felony, he wasn't even supposed to have it. And he certainly did not want to reveal its presence to the police unless there was absolutely no choice.

"How would you explain your Sergeant's absence?" he queried.

"I'd say he was doing some investigating for me on the case," Steve said. "I shouldn't have to say more than that, unless the Captain comes inquiring." He frowned. "I might have to confide in him. I'm sure _he_ wouldn't be your man."

"If it's anybody, he was at the docks last night," Lou said. "Was the Captain there?"

"No, he was in a meeting," Steve said. "Everyone there can prove he never left it."

Again Ginger and Lou exchanged a look. "If it has to be done," Ginger said at last. "But if you are able to hold off on telling him, Lieutenant, it would be preferable. After all, he could always be involved as well, while someone of lesser rank is carrying out his instructions."

Steve frowned but nodded. "Alright. I won't tell him, at least for now." Although he believed in the Captain's innocence, he could not deny that Ginger had a point.

Jim watched the proceedings quietly, wondering what was going on in the two criminals' minds. He could tell they were close, which had been his prevailing opinion in the past in spite of Lou's frustration with Ginger upon their arrest. It was certainly possible that an enemy of Lou's could have decided to go after Ginger just to get back at Lou for some reason.

But was it really as cut-and-dry as that?

After the twisted cases Jim had often seen, he wasn't that willing to decide it was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes: I took a bit of inspiration from an episode of **_**Highway Patrol**_** for the last scene.**

**Chapter Six**

"_Get him in the car!"_

"_Ginger, I think Mike's dead!"_

"_Get him in the __**car!**__"_

Mike still remembered hearing that dialogue right after Ginger's bullet had slammed into him. He had always wondered a bit why Lou had thought he was dead, since he had been clutching at the wound with both hands and not letting go. But he had assumed that Lou had just been so stunned and worried that he had not stopped to really reason it out.

Mike also remembered being lifted by Lou and Ginger and loaded into the rental car. And, as they had driven off, he had heard more conversation. The rest had always been a confused jumble in his mind, so it was strange that now, as he sat at their table with a cup of hot chocolate, he suddenly seemed to recall it in specific words.

He paused, stunned. Was he truly remembering what they had said next? Or was he just conjuring up a fictional discussion, perhaps something he had dreamed? It was not a conversation he would have expected to ever happen in reality.

"_I know Mike and Donnie double-crossed us, and we needed to stop them, but did you have to go shooting at them with that cannon of yours?!" Lou sounded angry. "You let your temper get away from you again."_

"_I wasn't shooting to kill." Ginger was angry, too. "That would have been idiotic. We needed them alive to tell us what they did with the diamond!"_

"_I've told you and told you that there's no such thing as shooting not to kill," Lou fumed. "Even if you just down a guy in the leg, he can croak in a few minutes if that big artery gets hit. And you got Mike in the side. You could've torn his hip out!"_

_Silence. "He wasn't hit that far down. And he isn't dead; I saw him breathing when we picked him up."_

"_Yeah, I saw too. And I'm not going to let him die. We have to figure out where we can take him that won't go crying to the police about it!"_

"_We don't know one city block from another. How do you think we're going to find a slightly crooked physician in any decent length of time?"_

"_We'll go to a bar in a bad part of town and ask around. And you'd better help me. You did this!"_

_Another silence. ". . . I said 'we.'"_

_Lou didn't skip a beat. "Well, you better have meant it."_

"_I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."_

Mike cringed. He still wondered how Lou ever got away with screaming at Ginger. If anyone else tried it, they probably really would have been dead. Or at least, seriously injured enough for a hospital. But Ginger just took it from Lou. The worst he ever did when Lou yelled was to yell back.

Ginger hadn't yelled back at the end, however. Lou's comment that Ginger had better help him had apparently zapped the anger out of Ginger instead of making it worse. Ginger had then sounded sobered, even possibly aware that he had done wrong and that he could lose Lou's friendship.

Mike didn't remember anything else of the conversation, if there was more. Ginger had gone silent and Lou had apparently driven to a bar where the denizens of the underworld tended to hang out. They had found a slightly crooked physician, who had removed the bullet and patched Mike up before sending them on their way.

He hadn't done a very good job; Mike had been woozy and coughing and had needed a trip to the prison ward of a hospital before the injury had really gotten under control. But getting Mike to even a crooked doctor had counted in Ginger's favor at the trial; the hospital doctor had testified that Mike probably would have been dead if Ginger and Lou hadn't done it. And Ginger had continued to insist that he hadn't been shooting to kill in the first place. He hadn't even necessarily been directly aiming at Mike and Donnie at all; he had fired an intimidation shot that had gone wild.

Lou had backed him up every bit of the way. For all his anger at Ginger's violent actions sometimes, he had never left his friend high and dry.

Mike wondered a bit if that would have been different if he _had_ died, but he didn't want to think about it too much.

"Mike?"

He looked up at Lou's voice. His brother had wandered into the kitchen, seeming a bit surprised to find him there.

"Oh. Hi, Lou." Mike hesitated. "I uh . . . I figured I wasn't really needed, so I came downstairs and made some hot chocolate. You want some?"

"Yeah, maybe." Lou went to the stove and got out a mug from the cupboard. "The Lieutenant and Rockford are gone now. That Sergeant is in the guest room."

"It's weird to think of a cop in the house," Mike remarked.

"Yeah, it is." Lou poured some of the liquid into the mug. "You looked upset when I came in. Were you thinking about that?"

"No." Mike shifted, uncomfortable. "I was . . . I was thinking about when I got shot. And the stuff Ginger said at the trial, how you didn't deny any of it." Mike frowned. "But he _was_ aiming at me and Donnie, wasn't he?"

"He said he wasn't, that he was only trying to get you to stop running." Lou sighed. "Truthfully, he was probably aiming too close, maybe even thinking he'd hit one of you but not thinking past that first moment and how he might kill you or Donnie even if he didn't mean to. He's always had a bad temper; you know that. But I think prison cooled him off somewhat. He had to be good then if he wanted to get out as soon as he could. And I've definitely noticed that he hasn't been as violent ever since."

He fell silent as he came to the table and sat across from Mike. When he spoke again, he was quieter.

"Ginger would be mad as heck if he knew I told you, but I think maybe you've got a right to know. The only time he's ever said he was sorry, for anything, was after he shot you."

Mike rocked back, staring at Lou as if he had said they were going to start marketing green cheese from the Moon. "He didn't say anything like that to me," he said. "He was making threats on me the next day, in that eerie, calm voice." He wasn't sure which side of Ginger was the most frightening, really—the sudden bursts of rage or the usual, perfectly calm frost.

"Oh, Mike, those were empty threats. He wouldn't have gone through with them. He just wanted to keep you shook up about the double-cross." Lou looked down at the hot chocolate. "I know he didn't apologize to you. He apologized to me, while we were waiting at the doctor's office."

"He just up and told you he was sorry?" Mike exclaimed, still in amazement.

"Yeah, he did. He said he hadn't meant to hurt my brother because he knew I cared about him—you."

Lou half-smiled. Ginger had actually said that sometimes he wasn't sure _why_ Lou cared about Mike, but he knew Lou did. He had added that Lou always seemed to care about the strangest people.

Lou had picked up on the full meaning behind those words. Ginger had wondered why Lou cared about him, too; why he would even still continue to after Ginger's temper had snapped and resulted in their situation that night.

Lou hadn't been able to really give him a good answer. He hadn't been sure of the _why_ himself. He still wasn't, really.

". . . I can hardly believe Ginger really said those things."

Lou started back to the present at Mike's voice. He was stirring the hot chocolate around with a spoon, frowning in confusion.

"I know Ginger didn't like me back then. And I'm sure he feels the same way now."

"I don't think he likes you too much," Lou had to admit. "But he likes me. He puts up with you because of me, same as you do with him."

Mike slowly nodded. "I guess that makes sense."

He drank the rest of the hot chocolate, still wondering if Lou was really right about Ginger caring at all, even about Lou. But at any rate, he knew that Ginger was a very proud person who was not prone to apologizing to anyone for anything. If he actually had apologized to Lou—and Mike was sure Lou wouldn't lie—then Mike felt a lot more confident that Ginger caring could be possible.

"Thanks for telling me, Lou," he said, setting down the empty mug. "I won't let Ginger know I know."

"You'd better not," Lou agreed.

"What is it I'm not supposed to know?"

Both brothers jumped a mile. Ginger had limped to the doorway and was supporting himself on the wooden doorframe. He was frowning in slight suspicion as he looked from Lou to Mike.

"Ginger!" Lou exclaimed. "You shouldn't be up!"

Ginger shrugged and walked into the room, collapsing into a chair at the table. "It gets monotonous just lying upstairs on the bed," he grumbled. He laced his fingers. "Now, what sort of deep, dark secret are you sharing that I am supposed to be exempt from?"

Mike bit his lip and looked away. It was amazing, that even while Ginger was badly hurt and really not much of a threat, Mike was still scared of him. "Nothing, Ginger," he squeaked. "Really."

Lou sighed. "I'm sorry, Ginger. I . . . I told Mike about when you apologized to me for shooting him. I just thought maybe it would help him not be so jumpy around you all the time."

Ginger grunted, not impressed.

Lou peered at him, a bit unsettled by that response. "Are you . . . really mad, Buddy?"

Ginger rubbed at his eyes. "Perhaps I would be, under ordinary circumstances. Right now I'm too bloody starved to care."

Mike sagged with visible relief.

Lou smiled. "I'll find something for you," he promised. "Meanwhile, do you want any hot chocolate?"

Ginger shrugged. "Why not."

xxxx

When Steve decided to return to the police station, hoping to get started on uncovering some clue about the dirty cop—or proving there wasn't one—Jim decided it was time to part ways for the moment. But he stopped at Dennis's desk on his way out.

"Hey, Dennis," he greeted, seeing his overworked friend absorbed in scrawling something down.

Dennis jumped a mile. "Jimbo, what are you doing here?" he said in a mix of confusion and exasperation. "You'd better not want another favor on this case."

Jim gave Dennis a mock wounded look. "Now, Dennis, surely you wouldn't object to lending a helping hand to someone else involved with the case."

"I've given you favors on so many cases that I should have my head examined," Dennis retorted. "Where have you been all day? Stephen Kalifer has called up at least five times looking for you. He's pretty ticked off that he wasn't told when to show up on the docks this morning."

Jim shrugged. "It was an oversight. But speaking of the docks, Dennis, I didn't see you there either."

"I've been checking out the company that owns the warehouse," Dennis sighed. "After getting the run-around all day, I finally found out that somebody just bought out the company a couple of months ago."

"Who was that?" Jim wondered, eyeing the papers strewn across Dennis's desk.

Dennis looked up, fixing him with a disapproving stare.

Jim tried a gently pleading look. "Oh, come on, Dennis. Just a name! It won't hurt for you to give me a name. I don't even want to be on this case. The sooner it's over, the better."

Dennis sighed in exasperation and resignation. ". . . Jackie Delano," he muttered.

"What?!" Jim went rigid. "The mobster?!"

"Yeah." Dennis frowned. "Does that mean something to you?"

"It could," Jim said. "It could explain why Delano's cardkey was floating in the Pacific Ocean. Maybe he was inspecting his new warehouse. Maybe it didn't even have anything to do with the explosion."

He paused. "On the other hand, since he _did_ make threats against Lou, he still has to be considered a person of interest," he mused. "He might've decided to use his new warehouse to kill the friend of his old enemy. Perhaps Delano owning the place makes him more suspicious than ever."

"Rockford, what are you even talking about?!" Dennis cried.

"Oh, I'm sure Lieutenant Drumm will explain it to you, Dennis," Jim said. "And I'm sure he's planning to get in touch with Jackie Delano. Meanwhile, I think _I'll_ just do it first." He turned to go. "I'll catch you later."

Dennis leaped up from his seat. "Rockford!" he shouted in frustration. But knowing it was hopeless, he sank down again, massaging his forehead.

This case had already been a headache for him. Now he had the feeling it would be even more of one.

xxxx

Jackie Delano was still in the Los Angeles area, instead of back in New York. And Jim was right that Lieutenant Drumm had every intention of speaking with him. But as luck would have it, Jim managed to locate him first.

Delano had purchased a large piece of property in Beverly Hills and was remodeling it to suit his tastes. When Jim located the house and was directed around the back by a stern and unimpressed thug, Delano was settling down to a feast at his small, round table.

"Well," he said, looking up from where he was placing a white napkin under his chin as a bib, "my man tells me you're a private eye."

"That's right, Mr. Delano," Jim replied, "and it just so happens that I'm looking into the explosion at one of your warehouses last night."

"Yeah?" Delano chawed into a chicken drumstick. When he next spoke, it was with a full mouth. "That's the uh . . . the one that knocked off that Brit, right?"

". . . Right," Jim said, recovering from a momentary bit of surprise. "And you were heard at the Oak Bridge Golf Club, making threats against his best friend, several weeks ago."

Delano paused. "Who's his best friend?"

"Lou Trevino." Jim watched him carefully for a reaction.

He wasn't disappointed. Delano's face was suddenly a thundercloud. "That creep? That's right; I remember seeing them together in London. They used to work there." He set down the drumstick and grabbed a handful of red grapes.

"Mr. Delano . . ." Jim shifted. He always hated dealing with mobsters. "The police are wondering if maybe you arranged the little fire show in your warehouse to kill the friend of your enemy."

"What?" Delano snorted. "Sure, I wanna get back at Trevino for some stuff, but I'd go after _him,_ not his friends."

"A cardkey you took from the Oak Bridge Golf Club was found floating in the water under the warehouse's wharf," Jim announced.

Delano shrugged. "Like you said, it's my warehouse. I've been out there several times checking the place out. I must've dropped the thing out of my pocket on one of my visits."

"Were you there yesterday at all?" Jim wondered.

"Nah. Last time I was there was last week. And you can check it." Delano was now attacking a cheese sandwich, tearing into the bread as a wolf tears into flesh.

Jim stared, his lip curling at the ravenous behavior. "What about any of your hired thugs?"

"Nobody was there," Delano growled, his mouth full again. "You can go back and tell the police that we didn't have anything to do with the Townsend guy getting offed."

"You can tell them yourself," Jim replied, having just heard another car pull up out front. "I think that's probably them now."

"Oh great," Delano complained. "Everybody always barges in when I'm eating. It can't ever be when I've actually got a free moment. Always when I'm eating! It's like they got no respect for a guy wanting to really enjoy his food."

Jim was unsuccessful in hiding an amused smile. It wasn't that he couldn't understand where the guy was coming from; he could. But he couldn't help feeling some satisfaction over a mobster having such a lifelong quandary.

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out," he drawled. He turned to go, but paused. "By the way, Mr. Delano, just for the record, what actually is the problem between you and Mr. Trevino?"

"He interrupted my meals," Delano growled.

Jim stopped and stared. "Are you trying to tell me that your whole grudge against that man doesn't have anything to do with anything illegal, but _food _instead?!"

"It should be illegal to interrupt a guy when he's eating," Delano snapped. "But no, there was more to it. It just ain't your business. And I've given you all the time I'm going to, so get out!"

Jim held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, I'm going! Don't get your bib in a bunch."

He nearly plowed into Steve when he attempted to walk around the side of the house. The police Lieutenant stumbled to a stop, frowning at him. "How did you manage to get here ahead of us?" he demanded. "We had to look up where to even go."

"So did I, Lieutenant," Jim said. "I've got my sources. Privileged information, you know. Oh, and I should warn you—the guy hates to be interrupted when he's eating."

"He'll just have to deal with it," Steve grunted.

"He also says he wouldn't hurt Ginger to get at Lou," Jim added.

Steve looked incredulous. "Do you actually believe him?"

"I really can't say," Jim said. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

He walked past and continued to his car, lost in his thoughts.

He nearly bowled over Vern St. Cloud in the process.

"What the . . . _Vern!_" He stopped, glowering at the other private eye. "Are you following me or something?"

"Well . . ." Vern wrung his hands, looking more nervous and edgy than usual. "Oh, come on, Rockford! I'm still trying to figure out what's going on here and how everything connects. I just found out that Jackie Delano owns the warehouse that went kablooey, so naturally I came here to see him!"

"Hoping _he'll_ hire you, I imagine," Jim deduced.

"I'm still hoping Trevino will," Vern blurted. Thinking it over, he hurriedly added, "But if Mr. Delano needs a private eye, I sure wouldn't turn down the offer."

"Of course not." Jim paused, debating whether to give Vern the same warning he had passed on to Steve.

Vern frowned, suspicious. "What is it?"

Making up his mind, Jim patted Vern on the shoulder. "Nothing. Go on in, Vern. Have fun."

More suspicious than ever, Vern glowered at Jim as he went slowly past. But, offering nothing more, Jim walked the rest of the way to his car.

Again he was wrapped in his thoughts. Mobsters were notorious liars, and Delano certainly could have been lying to him about his involvement with the warehouse, but what if he wasn't? And if he wasn't guilty, who was?

xxxx

Ginger leaned back as he finished eating, his eyes narrowed in his thoughts.

"What is it?" Lou wondered.

They were alone in the kitchen now, Mike having wandered off soon after Lou had started warming a can of soup. Mike had not felt comfortable sitting at the table with Ginger, and that was perfectly alright with Ginger.

"You aren't mad after all about what I told Mike, are you?" Lou asked when Ginger remained silent.

Ginger looked to him. "I can't say I would be jumping for joy over it even if I was physically capable of jumping right now," he said dryly. "But that wasn't on my mind until you put it back." He crossed his arms on the table. "I'm trying to recall whether I might know why this happened to me."

Lou blinked in surprise. "What do you mean, Ginger?"

"We've been focused on the idea that it must be an old enemy of ours, are we not?"

"Well, yeah," Lou acknowledged, still confused.

"What if it isn't? Suppose I simply saw something I wasn't supposed to see and someone is afraid I'll talk."

"I guess," Lou said. "But can you think of anything you could've seen?"

"I'm trying to." Ginger pushed the empty bowl farther aside. "If that could be the explanation, it must have been something I saw not that long ago. You were probably already on your business trip at the time."

"I wasn't even gone that long," Lou protested. "Less than a week."

Ginger nodded. "I know."

"Do you think it has anything to do with the company? I know you've been thinking they're doing something shady that we don't know about."

"It's possible," Ginger admitted, "but what I'm wondering more is whether it has anything to do with something I could have seen while eating out. There was a restaurant I chose to patron two nights ago that did not seem . . . entirely aboveboard."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Certain customers were informing the waitress to be sure to include extra salt or sugar with their orders. I didn't think anything of it, until another customer stood up suddenly and caused the waitress to stumble into my table. One of the packets of salt dropped into my lap. When I picked it up to hand it back, I wasn't entirely sure it was actually salt."

Lou stared at him. "Narcotics?"

"Perhaps." Ginger frowned. "I remember the waitress was quite worried. At the time I assumed it was because she had stumbled and bothered me, but now I wonder if she was concerned instead that I had discovered their dark secret."

Lou clenched a fist. He and Ginger had been jewel thieves, but he had vowed never to become involved in the drug business. Ginger had been agreeable; he considered drug addiction a filthy habit and didn't want any part of it.

"I want to check them out," Lou announced.

Ginger stiffened. "What?!"

"When it's dinnertime, I think I'll go over there and just spy for a while," Lou insisted. "I'll pay with cash; they won't even know who I am."

"If they researched me, they may very well have located a picture of you," Ginger pointed out.

"Maybe," Lou said, "but maybe not. Look, Ginger, I want to have some part in bringing them down. After I look the place over, I'll tell the Lieutenant or the Sergeant. Don't worry."

Ginger scowled. "I don't like it," he proclaimed.

"Well, I don't like what somebody did to you!" Lou retorted. "And they're gonna know that I won't take it lying down."

Ginger snatched Lou's closed fist. "And get yourself blown up the next night?" he snarled. "Or perhaps they wouldn't try that again. For you they might see that you have a car 'accident.' They might not even wait until you leave the premises. If they suspect what you're really up to, they could so easily slip a little something extra in your food."

Lou sighed, his shoulders slumping. Ginger was right, of course. He didn't want to go off and get himself killed, putting Ginger through the same agony he had felt.

"I know that, Ginger," he said quietly.

"We'll tell the Sergeant right now and he can pass the word along to the Lieutenant," Ginger said.

"Yeah, but . . ." Lou frowned, realizing something else. "Drumm might be recognized checking the place out. Brice too, maybe. They might have to bring somebody else in on it. And how would we know they wouldn't be part of the mess?"

"If they were, they probably would report back that there was nothing to be concerned about," Ginger mused, "and that in itself could be a red flag. If they made any connection with us, they would surely assume that I called you on the phone and told you about my experience in the restaurant before the explosion. Unless, of course, they choose to believe that I am alive even if you continue the ruse that I am not."

"There wouldn't be much point coming after either you or me once the police know," Lou said. "But if these people are really vindictive, they might do it anyway."

He stood and began to pace. "I still think I should go and have a look," he said. "I could take Mike with me."

Ginger scoffed. "Mike wouldn't be any help in a plight, unless he wouldn't run from you as he did me."

"I don't think he'd run," Lou insisted.

Ginger looked away, thinking, still obviously not pleased. "I can't stop you if you're determined to go," he muttered grudgingly.

"You can if you don't give me the name of the place," Lou pointed out.

Ginger finally looked back to him, unimpressed. "Josephine's Restaurant and Grill," he said, his tone flat. "And if you don't get back in a reasonable amount of time, I will send the police after you."

"That's fair enough," Lou said. "But we'll be back."

"You had better be," Ginger replied.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes: Two more oneshot **_**Perry Mason**_** characters drop in to provide a clue.**

**Chapter Seven**

Ginger was still sitting at the table, thinking. The more he thought about Lou's proposal to visit the restaurant, the more unsettled he became. And when he thought a bit longer, he realized that they had both forgotten one of the other angles of the case.

"Lou?" He struggled up from the table, using both it and the chair for balance.

Lou hurried back to the doorway. "What is it, Buddy?" he asked, concerned both by Ginger's pained attempt to stand and the anxious tone in his voice.

"We didn't tell Drumm about the crates," Ginger said. "The ones I saw in the warehouse, I mean. The ones that didn't belong."

Lou blinked in surprise. "Hey, that's right," he realized. "I'd better let the Sergeant know right now, just in case it's important."

He frowned, pausing. "But if the explosion was supposed to destroy those crates or something, I don't know why you would've got that note to go out there."

"Perhaps just to make the warehouse look bad, if it was their competitor that set the bombs," Ginger replied, painstakingly sinking back into the chair. "I might have been chosen only because of our past connection with the warehouse's insurance company."

"I guess." Lou sighed. "Do you really think that? Or are you just trying to get me not to go to the Grill tonight?"

"I'm merely trying to collect all the possibilities and see that they're considered," Ginger retorted. "However . . ." He looked firmly at Lou. "It would be more sensible to have Rockford go to the restaurant, instead of going yourself. Or at least, if you still insist on going, you should consider taking him and not Mike. It would be far more safe for you."

Lou paused. "That's a thought," he said. "I'll call him and see what he thinks."

Ginger watched him go to the desk in the living room and pick up the phone. "Wait," he suddenly said, sharply.

Lou jumped a mile. "Now what?!" he exclaimed. "Ginger . . ."

"The phone might be tapped," Ginger said. "Use yours; there would be less chance of being overheard."

Lou frowned, but dug into his pocket for his Smartphone. "When would anyone have got the chance to tap our phone?"

"I don't know," Ginger retorted. "While you were away and I was at work. I want to have the entire house examined for listening devices."

Lou sighed, not able to say that Ginger was wrong in his suspicions. He might not be. "Alright, Ginger," he said. "We'll see about it."

xxxx

Jim was just arriving back at his trailer when the phone rang. Hearing it, he got out and hurried to the door. The machine would get the call, but if it was important to the current case he wanted to answer in person. He dashed inside, grabbing up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Rockford?"

He found himself surprised that the caller was Lou. "Oh hey, Lou," he greeted. "Why are you calling me? Did something else go wrong?"

"Well . . . the thing is, Rockford, I'm not sure."

Jim listened as Lou described what Ginger had been telling him, from the wrong crates in the warehouse to the possibly criminal restaurant. "So," he said at the conclusion, "what do you think?"

Jim frowned, playing with a pen on the desk. He wanted to say that it was all crazy. Oh, maybe not the crates so much; that _was_ weird. But the thought of a restaurant passing drugs in the salt and sugar packets sounded inane.

Unfortunately, he knew from countless experiences that inane things happened all the time.

"There _could_ be something to it," he said noncommittally. "I'm more interested in checking into this crate thing. Problem is, there's not going to be any easy way to do that without revealing that Ginger was alive at least long enough to tell you about seeing the crates right before everything blew to Kingdom Come."

"Yeah." Lou frowned. "Hey, maybe the police could say they found a piece of a crate that had the company name stamped on it?"

"Maybe," Jim mused. "I'd have to run it past Lieutenant Drumm."

"And what about the restaurant, Rockford?" Lou persisted. "It should be checked out too. I was going to go there myself, but Ginger doesn't like that idea. I mean, I can't blame him; I guess I could get hurt, if they know who I am. But unless they really did set the bombs, I don't think they'd know anything about me. And maybe not even then."

Jim exhaled in exasperation. "Okay, Lou, okay. I'll check out the restaurant too."

"I could come with you." Lou sounded hopeful. "I really don't think they'd know me."

"I'd rather do it alone, even if they don't know who you are," Jim said flatly. "I do my best work alone."

"It was my buddy they tried to kill," Lou snarled. "I want to be part of getting them put away."

"We don't know it was _these_ people, Lou," Jim exclaimed in exasperation. "And you're not a private eye or any other type of character who solves things. I don't need you underfoot. Besides, your buddy will be home worrying if you go."

Silence. ". . . Alright, we'll play it your way for now, Rockford. But if you go and see things and think that there's any chance that they are the ones who went after Ginger, don't hold back. Let me know."

"I'll keep you up-to-date on everything, for your and Ginger's safety," Jim said. "_Not_ so you can go all Rambo on them with Ginger's shotgun."

Another long pause. ". . . Yeah. Yeah, sure, Rockford. I know. Thanks." Lou hung up. Somewhat abruptly, Jim thought, but he hung up his own receiver and didn't bother to think more about it.

He checked the clock. It would be time for a meal soon. And really, he was hungry now. It was just as good a time as any to have a look at that restaurant.

xxxx

Ginger had come into the living room by now and was sitting tiredly on the couch. "Well?" He watched as Lou hung up the phone, looking lost in thought.

"He's going to check things out," Lou reported. "But hey, Ginger, I was just wondering. You had your shotgun with you last night, didn't you?"

"Yes," Ginger frowned. "It was probably melted down or thrown into the water. Either way, there wouldn't be any way it could be traced to me, if the police happened to find any scrap of it intact."

"I hope not." Lou got up from the desk.

Ginger continued to observe him. ". . . Are you going with Rockford?"

Lou scowled. "He doesn't want me there." He sighed. "But I guess maybe it's for the best."

"It is. If we're going to personally investigate, it has to be from the shadows, where we won't be potentially spotted."

Ginger paused, glancing to the large corner window at the sudden sound of a vacuum cleaner. ". . . Speaking of working from the shadows, did that barmy woman notice us coming in last night?" he frowned.

Lou looked to the window as well. "I hope not," he said. "I didn't see her and the lights were out for once, so I figured she was in bed."

Ginger grunted. "To assume anything with her is often a mistake."

Lou sighed, knowing Ginger was right. "Well, if she saw us, she'll probably be broadcasting it somewhere before long. And then everything will go right down the drain."

Ginger folded his arms in annoyance.

To say their next-door neighbor was unusual or even "barmy" was putting it mildly. She had moved in some time back, when the house had been up for sale, and she had not come alone. With her had come a blue-and-silver canister vacuum cleaner, which she had proclaimed was Harold, her husband. She was prone to taking walks with Harold and dancing with "him" on her balcony late at night, complete with music.

Ginger and Lou tried to stay as far away from her as possible. And she wasn't particularly fond of them, either, especially since learning of their reputation as jewel thieves and ex-convicts. Once she had tried to evict them from the neighborhood by starting a petition for the residents to sign. It had failed, as most of the people on the block were more frustrated by her music in the middle of the night than they were by Ginger and Lou, who were "very quiet neighbors who minded their own business," according to one man.

Suddenly the sound of the vacuum was louder. Ginger tensed. "She's coming over here."

"And she's bringing Harold," Lou groaned.

"Well, of course she is," Ginger said as he struggled up from the couch. "You wouldn't expect her to deliver condolences without her Hoover present, would you?" He limped out of the room, only barely making it to the study before the knock came at the door.

Bracing himself against whatever nonsense might await him, Lou got up and went to the door. "Oh . . . Mrs. Oreck," he greeted. It was always difficult to remember the "Mrs." Prefix. A vacuum cleaner was not his idea of a proper husband!

"Mr. Trevino." She looked at him with what seemed to be genuine sympathy. "I just got off of work and Harold and I wanted to come over and tell you how sorry we are about Mr. Townsend. We heard it on the late news last night and we were both shocked."

"Thanks," Lou stammered, glancing at Harold out of politeness but not wanting to actually address "him".

Mrs. Oreck leaned in close. "You _are_ planning to go to the police, aren't you?" she whispered.

Lou froze. "Why would I?" he retorted. "The police already know."

"I saw you take his body in the house last night," Mrs. Oreck said, still in a whisper. "Harold did too. And I know your grief must be enormous, but you know you can't keep him _here,_ don't you?"

Lou's mouth dropped open. "You think I . . ." He shook his head in stunned disbelief. "He's not here! Mike and I took him to a mortician we know."

"I certainly hope so." Mrs. Oreck laid a hand on his shoulder. "We are truly sorry, Mr. Trevino. Are you planning to stay on here, now that he's gone?"

Lou bristled. She was still hoping to get him out of the neighborhood. She probably wasn't even really sorry about Ginger, but had only used that as an excuse to come over and ask if Lou was staying.

"I don't know yet," he said. "Maybe I'll ask Mike to move in with me." Maybe he would have done that too, if Ginger really had been killed. As it was, Lou was just saying it now to get right back at Mrs. Oreck and not leave her any smidgen of hope that he would be moving.

Indeed, he could see the disappointment flickering in her eyes. "Oh. Well, I hope that will work for both of you. I know it couldn't when Mr. Townsend was alive." She turned to go. "Again, we're terribly sorry."

Lou couldn't even bring himself to be polite anymore. "Yeah, sure," he muttered. "See you around."

He shut the door, seething in spite of himself, and crossed the living room to get to the hall. As he arrived at the study, Sergeant Brice appeared at the top of the stairs. "Who was that?"

"A nosy neighbor thinking I brought a dead body in the house," Lou growled.

Ginger limped to the study door. "So I heard." He looked as displeased as Lou felt.

Lou threw his hands in the air. "She's always thinking we're into something we're not," he fumed. "Remember the time she called the police on us because she was so sure there was some kind of domestic abuse going on?!"

Ginger grunted. "It would be impossible to forget."

". . . So she thought you two were lovers or something?"

They jumped a mile at the added voice. Somehow Jim Rockford had entered the house and was now standing in the hall, his hands on his hips.

"What she thinks is irrelevant either way," Ginger snapped. "It isn't true, regardless. How did you get in here?"

Lou groaned, running a hand over his face. "I was so mad, I guess I forgot to lock the door," he realized.

Ginger still gave Jim a withering look. "You could have knocked."

"Hey, I thought maybe you were being overrun by the bad guys," Jim returned, defensively. "I figured I'd better just come inside and make sure, without announcing I was here."

"Everything's fine here, Mr. Rockford," Brice said. "I think."

"Except for the fact that that _kook_ saw us last night," Lou exclaimed.

"By 'that kook', do you by any chance mean the lady I just saw lugging a big vacuum cleaner down the street?" Jim said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Harold." Lou shook his head, his shoulders slumped as he entered the study.

Jim stared at him. "Excuse me?!"

"She named it Harold," Lou explained, sinking onto the edge of the desk. "She thinks it's her husband."

Jim's expression bespoke on so many levels exactly what he thought of _that._ ". . . Okay, _kook_ doesn't even begin to describe her," he proclaimed. "And what do you mean she saw you last night? She saw Ginger?"

"She thinks I brought his body in the house and that I . . ." Lou grimaced. "That I still have him here. His dead body, I mean."

"That doesn't make sense to me," Ginger said. "Why was it that she didn't see I was moving as well as you?"

"I was probably the one she could see the best," Lou mused. "And Mike was right behind us, so that would've hid you even more. She might've only really seen you when we got on the porch, and you were really slumped against me by then."

"And just maybe looking awfully dead from a distance," Jim concluded.

"It's still a concern for her to know," Ginger said. "She could tell anyone. And certain people might not believe that Lou just had a corpse."

"They _have_ to be believe it!" Lou cried. "If they don't, you . . ." He looked down. "You really might get it."

"I won't 'get it'," Ginger insisted.

He looked to Jim, not particularly wanting to air their personal worries in front of a private eye. But Jim just shrugged and stepped back, not particularly planning to listen to their personal worries.

"I think I should know more about this woman," Jim declared, resting a closed fist on the doorframe. "She could really mess this whole thing up."

"Don't you think we both know that by now?" Ginger returned in irritation.

"Okay, okay." Jim started to pace the room. "But _I _need to know. I don't know what she might have on you."

"You name it, she's probably twisted something into it," Lou declared.

"Like that little incident of domestic abuse," Jim filled in. "Exactly what was happening here that would have made her come up with such a wild idea?"

"She just heard something falling over," Ginger said harshly. "Perhaps several somethings." He was not about to say that, due to an old necklace he and Lou had found in the house, Lou had ended up possessed by an evil spirit inhabiting it and had actually attacked Ginger. Lou had been thoroughly devastated to have had any part of harming Ginger and tried never to bring it up. For him to have mentioned what Mrs. Oreck had thought was going on was a testament to how upset she had made him now.

"Alright, so you won't tell me," Jim said. "Then nevermind. I'll ask the other neighbors about her."

"Let's talk about why you're here in the first place, Rockford," Ginger said. Relieved for the change of subject, Lou nodded in agreement.

"Okay," Jim sighed. "I was just on my way to that restaurant. Josephine's Gill?"

"Yeah," Lou nodded.

"The only problem is, I can't find the darn place in the phone book." Jim looked irritated. "It must be too new. Do you know how to get there?" He turned back to Ginger, who paused.

"I might be able to give you directions," he said slowly, "but only if you start from the company building."

"Fine, I'll start from the company building," Jim said impatiently. "How did you find out about the place?"

"Someone at work recommended it, actually," Ginger mused. "Henry Jonson, I believe." Crossing to the desk, he sat down and took out a map of the city. Locating the company building, he traced the streets with a pen until he came to where he thought the restaurant was situated.

Jim had placed his hands on the desk and was leaning forward, observing as Ginger worked. "You know, I could have just gone on Google Maps and looked it up direct," he said.

Ginger looked at him with one of the putout, icy stares that scared Mike so much.

Jim was unruffled. "Okay, nevermind," he said. "Sorry. But if I follow your directions and end up somewhere like Harry's Hamburger Hut . . ."

"You won't," Ginger crisply cut him off. "If my directions are off, it's only by a block or so." He set the pen aside and refolded the map before handing it to Jim.

"I'm starting to feel like I'm working for you guys instead of for the insurance company," Jim remarked. "And speak of the devil, Stephen Kalifer is probably going to catch up to not only me, but you guys, before long."

"So he'll pop in on us too?" Lou moaned.

"I'd say that's a pretty fair guess," Jim nodded. He paused. "And you know, I'd kind of like to see his face if he runs into your neighbor. That would be scrapbook material right there."

"He might actually believe some of the stuff she'd tell him about us," Lou objected.

Jim considered that. "Okay, so them meeting up is probably not the best idea," he conceded.

"Darn-tootin' it's not," Lou said. "Do you know how hard he'd come down on us if he thought I had a body in here?!"

"It _would_ be a health hazard, Lou," Jim said. "But if he showed up with a crew from the health department, your secret would get out."

"And that is exactly what we don't want," Ginger said. "We're holding you responsible to see that in the eyes of the public, I remain dead."

Jim cringed. He did not want to find out what Ginger would do if Jim failed on that matter. "Don't worry," he said, hoping his voice sounded lighter than he felt right now. "As far as I'm concerned, you're dead and gone. And at an unnamed mortuary instead of being kept here by a grieving friend."

Lou scowled. It was necessary to keep up the charade that Ginger was dead, but he did not feel like joking about it.

Ginger did not offer an opinion, even in a nonverbal manner. "Go," he instructed.

"I'm going, I'm going," Jim retorted. Slipping the map into his inner blazer pocket, he fled the room and the house.

xxxx

Josephine's Restaurant and Grill was just about exactly where Ginger had indicated it was. Jim parked and got out, examining the building from the outside before heading to the door. It looked innocuous enough from this angle.

He almost turned around and walked out again when he stepped inside and saw a far-too-familiar private eye sitting at a corner table and ordering much too loudly. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he could not help but mutter aloud. Vern St. Cloud was _everywhere_ today. If he did not know better, he would say that Vern must have a twin brother.

Trying his best to avoid his nemesis, Jim slipped into a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant and hid behind a menu. As he studied the available dishes, he tried to listen for the sounds of anyone ordering extra salt or sugar packets. Not hearing anything like that, he selected something and waited for the waitress.

She soon arrived, looking exhausted from taking Vern's order. "How may I help you, Sir?" she greeted.

Jim gave his own, simple order, sympathetic to her plight. As she departed for the kitchen, he saw to his chagrin that Vern had noticed him. And Vern seemed chagrined as well.

It was Vern who ended up making the next move. He came over to Jim in frustrated distress. "Thanks for letting me know how touchy Jackie Delano is about people walking in on him while he's eating," he said in all sarcasm. "It looks like you're the one doing the following, Rockford. What are you doing _here?!_"

"Getting something to eat, Vern, which is what I suppose you're doing here too," Jim returned in exasperation. "But why here, of all places? Isn't it pretty new?"

"So?" Vern shrugged. "I keep track of all the new eateries in town. It just so happens that I like this one a lot."

"What makes it so much better than the thousands of other eateries in Los Angeles?" Jim returned.

"Good food, good service, some surprises now and then." Vern peered at him. "Why are you so interested, anyway?"

"I'm just wondering if I want to make it one of my favorite places too," Jim said. "But with a seventy-five percent chance of running into you every time, Vern, I think maybe I'll pass no matter how good the food is."

"Your loss," Vern said. "I don't mind sharin' the place."

Jim debated whether or not to ask Vern if he had ever noticed something strange about the orders for extra salt and sugar, but supposed for several reasons that it would be better not to while they were right inside the restaurant. Even if no one else heard the initial conversation, Vern might say something about it so loud that the entire city block would hear.

At that moment the waitress returned with a tray and Vern perked up. "Oh, that's mine," he said. "I'll catch you later, Rockford."

"Yeah, you probably will," Jim grumbled. "With our luck lately."

When his own order arrived, he ate in silence, continuing to listen for any customers requesting extra salt or sugar. And while he couldn't seem to catch any notations like that, he nearly choked when something else interesting wafted to him from the next booth.

"Ginger? Yeah, sure I know he's dead."

Jim grabbed the glass of ice water and gulped it down in a desperate effort not to cough and miss something and alert the speaker to his presence.

"Everybody knows. He's a pretty bad character in the underworld. That whole Borland Diamond thing he masterminded, that was brilliant. If it hadn't been for those idiots double-crossing him and Lou, they probably would've pulled it off."

"Hmm." The other voice was a woman's. "So you do still admire a good caper, even though you're trying to go straight."

"I'd never even get mixed up in something like jewel robbery," the man replied. "You know I've just been a two-bit con artist, Pearl. I don't have enough nerve to get into the big time. But sure, I admire the skills it takes to pull something like that off."

"Con artist? Pearl?" Jim mumbled to himself. It sounded like he might have just stumbled across Gene Torg and his friend Pearl Chute. And even if Gene was trying to go straight, he probably still heard things. Jim wondered whether to present himself and ask.

"You sure don't have the nerve," Pearl was saying now. "It's too bad, Sweet. But anyway . . . what about this explosion? Does anyone know who might have been angry enough at Ginger to kill him?"

"The word is that no one's even sure it was done out of revenge or hate. At least, not towards Ginger. Somebody could've been trying to get back at Lou. Or maybe even . . ." He trailed off.

"Maybe what?"

"I don't know. Maybe somebody was trying to get rid of Ginger so he wouldn't talk about something."

Jim sighed to himself. It sounded like the underworld was just as in the dark as he was.

"I did hear one interesting thing. Remember that guy Donnie, the one who got Lou's brother to go along with him in the double-cross?"

"Of course. He was the only one the police never found."

"Yeah. Well, the word is that Jackie Delano got hold of him."

"He's working for Jackie Delano?" Pearl said in surprise.

"I don't know if he's actually working for the guy, but think about this, Pearl. Delano's got some crazy grudge against Lou for some reason. So he runs across the guy who got the double-cross going against Lou and Ginger. Now he has someone with the inside scoop on his enemy. Donnie could have told Delano some stuff and Delano could have decided to use it to get back at Lou."

"Maybe," Pearl mused. "But Delano wouldn't have to listen to this Donnie to know that killing Ginger would be one of the worst things he could do to Lou. Everyone knows they're close."

"I know. It just seems like a weird coincidence anyway, if Delano ran across Donnie right before the explosion."

It did, indeed. Jim decided another talk with Delano was in order. Preferably, _after_ the guy had dinner.

"Oh hey, waitress? I'd like some extra sugar for this coffee, please."

Jim started a mile. "Gene Torg?" he whispered in disbelief. The more the guy talked, the more Jim knew it was him. And the very thought of him being involved with drugs was preposterous.

He tried to see around the booth. Although he couldn't see Gene or Pearl, the waitress who had been hailed was very much in his line of vision. She held a container with the packets, seeming both hesitant and mystified by the request.

"Do you want any certain kind of sugar?" she asked slowly.

"Kind?" Gene sounded confused and in disbelief. "Just the regular kind. Two packs, please."

Seeming to make a decision, the waitress nodded and selected two packets. And, Jim noted, she was very careful to take them from one particular row.

Maybe there really _was_ something going on. Those who wanted drugs might be given packets from one of the other rows.

Just this one incident wasn't enough to convince Jim of anything shady, but it did make him sit up and pay attention. He would keep watching.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Jackie Delano had just finished dinner by the time Jim arrived back at his house.

"So what do you want this time, Rockford?" he scowled when the butler showed Jim into the den. Delano was reclining in a La-Z-Boy, a can of soda in one hand and the television remote in the other.

"I just wanted to talk about something interesting I found out," Jim replied. "I haven't come at a bad time, have I?"

"Well, it's better than if you'd come thirty minutes earlier," Delano grumbled, setting the remote on the chair arm.

"I know, I know, you can't stand being interrupted when you're eating," Jim said. "Does the name Donny Waugh mean anything to you?"

Delano shrugged, seemingly unsurprised. "I know the guy. He came looking for a job and I gave him one. So?"

"He was one of the two guys who double-crossed Ginger and Lou over the Borland Diamond," Jim said smugly.

Delano looked at him over the top of the soda can. "Yeah, he told me about that. He said Ginger was gunning for him. Acted real scared about it. He's even been going under a different name to hide from Ginger."

"You wouldn't have just so happened to set off that explosion in your warehouse to eliminate the problem, would you?"

Delano snorted. "Come on, Rockford. I wouldn't risk a murder rap just so some pea-brained employee of mine could sleep nights."

"Well, that's nice to know," Jim said dryly. "And what about the 'pea-brained employee' of yours? Do you think he might be capable of either setting the bomb himself or arranging for someone else to do it?"

"I don't think he's _that_ scared of the guy," Delano retorted.

"Maybe not, but then again, people are just full of surprises," Jim quipped. "And oh by the way, just so you know, the police still want Donny Waugh for his part in the robbery."

"Really?" Delano did not look concerned. "I'll have to do something about that, then. I'll gift-wrap him for the cops tonight."

"They'll appreciate the early Christmas present," Jim remarked. "Just put 'To Lieutenant Chapman and Sergeant Becker' on the tag. But I think Lieutenant Drumm will want a few words with him too."

"Not to mention yourself," Delano said.

"Well, yeah, sure. That'd be nice." Jim looked at him. "Where can I find him?"

Delano set the soda down and scribbled an address and telephone number on a piece of paper. "You'll have to hurry if you want to talk to him before the cops do," he cautioned.

Jim took the offered paper, studying the address. "You know, it's kind of funny how you're so knowledgeable about where one random employee lives," he said. "I mean, a guy like you has hundreds of them, right? You can't personally keep track of every one of them."

"Nah, but I keep track of everybody who works here at the house," Delano retorted. "Donny Waugh does my gardening."

Jim stared. "Are you serious? He didn't strike me as the tippy-tippy-toe through the tulips type."

"Hey, everybody's got some crazy hobby or two, don't they? He does good work for me or I'd fire him." Delano grabbed the remote. "Now if you don't mind, I'm gonna watch TV. It's time for my favorite show." He scowled. "And you're standing in front of the set."

"Oh. Pardon me." Jim stepped aside, idly curious as to what a mobster like Jackie Delano enjoyed watching in his spare time.

As the television warmed up, the title card _Martin Yan's Hidden China_ appeared on the screen. Again Jim stared. "_Yan Can Cook_," he muttered. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Delano ignored him, if he heard at all. Jim slipped away to the door as the episode began.

xxxx

Donny Waugh's house was in a modest upper middle-class neighborhood, nestled inconspicuously among other well-kempt houses. Donny was outside, trimming the large bushes, as Jim pulled up and parked.

"Donny Waugh?" Jim called as he got out.

Donny started and turned, open hedge-clippers in hand. "Yeah?" He stiffened at the sight of Jim.

"Ah, so you _do_ remember me," Jim noted. "You know, this is the first time you haven't been hiding behind a wool mask when we met."

Donny laid the hedge-clippers on the grass and walked towards Jim, meeting him halfway. "So what do you want, Rockford?" he frowned, still nervous.

Jim was gratified that he had left the clippers behind. "Nothing much, Donny," he replied. "I just wanted to talk to you about a guy you knew."

"What guy?" Donny retorted. From his anxious stance and worried eyes, he knew exactly whom Jim meant but wasn't about to acknowledge it on his own.

"Oh, come on, Donny. I'm sure you've read the papers," Jim shot back. "Everyone knows you were mixed up in the Borland Diamond robbery. It won't do any good to deny you knew Ginger Townsend."

"Okay, so I knew him," Donny snapped. "So what?"

"So he's _dead,_ so what!" Jim got up in his face. "The police are checking out all of his enemies. Don't think they won't get around to you sooner or later, even if you are using a phony name."

Donny stared, alarm coming into his eyes. "I didn't have anything to do with him croaking, Rockford! I swear I didn't!"

"Are you sure?" Jim returned. "You could've hired somebody else to do it. Working for Jackie Delano must earn you a nice fat paycheck every month."

"_NO."_ Donny clenched a fist. "I stole a rock, sure. But that's nothing like committing murder! If anyone'd do that, it's Ginger himself. The guy was nuts. He had to be! You should've seen him open fire on Mike Trevino and me."

"Well, he didn't kill himself," Jim said coolly. "Somebody arranged that little trip for him. And I've heard that you are doing your darnedest to hide from him. If he was out of the picture, you wouldn't have to worry about him any more at all."

"I don't think he's actively looking for me or anything like that," Donny said. "I mean . . . I don't think he _was._ It's weird to think of him being dead. Lou must be taking it hard."

"He is," Jim said. "Ginger was his best friend. He's not going to rest easy until he knows who murdered him. But you didn't exactly answer my question."

"Okay," Donny shot back. "So I wouldn't have to live in terror of Ginger finding me if I offed him. Sure, I'll admit that. And I'm not really sorry he's gone. But I wasn't mixed up in it! That's the truth."

"Maybe it is, Donny. Just maybe it is."

"What's your interest in the case, anyway?" Donny wondered. "Did Lou hire you?"

"No, the insurance company did. They're not too happy with all the negative publicity they're getting from this little incident, especially since they insured the rock you guys stole, too."

Donny turned away. "You can go back and tell them that you still haven't found anyone who could've done it. And if I need an alibi, I was right here at home last night."

"Yeah, but can anyone verify that?" Jim wondered. "You live alone, don't you?"

"The neighbor saw me at the window," Donny insisted.

"At two o'clock in the morning?!" Jim was incredulous.

"I keep funny hours sometimes. So does she." Donny picked up the clippers. "Is that all, Rockford?"

"I guess so," Jim replied. "For now."

He somewhat doubted that Jackie Delano would follow through with his promise to have Donny arrested. He supposed that he would have to point Donny out to the police, if it came to that. But he doubted Donny was their man, or that he'd even have the nerve to hire somebody instead of setting the bombs himself, so Jim honestly wasn't that eager to get the guy in jail. The statute of limitations hadn't yet run out on the crime, but he seemed fairly harmless now.

After all, how much trouble could he get into trimming hedges?

Jim checked with the neighbor before he left anyway. And she verified that Donny had been home at the time of the explosion. Unless she was covering for him, that likely let him off the hook. Jim was content to look for other persons of interest at the moment.

xxxx

Vern groaned as he left the Stanford Warehouse Company, Los Angeles branch. They had hired him to find out who had stolen their shipments and were most displeased with his lack of progress on the case. He had dreaded making his report to them today. That was, at least in part, why he had wandered around trying to look into the warehouse explosion. It had seemed a much more profitable case with which to involve himself.

Now they had all learned that the police had discovered part of a crate at the explosion site with the Stanford Warehouse Company name stamped on it. Vern's employers now believed that the Star Warehouse Company had been responsible for the theft. And they had insisted that Vern involve himself with the murder case.

That would all be well and good, if Vern had been having good luck with it. As it was, he kept running into brick walls and Jim Rockford at every turn. He would hope that his new status would grant him information that he had not previously had, but the way things had been going, he wasn't about to bet on it.

"Why did Rockford have to already be on this case?" Vern muttered to himself.

He wasn't even sure what to do now. He had called the Boston Fire and Casualty insurance company and left a message for Stephen Kalifer to call him back. So far, there had not been a reply to that.

Perhaps the next thing he should do was to go out to the explosion site and see if he could find any other interesting clues. It didn't seem to him that anything much was being found there, since the police were so baffled about Ginger's death, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt to try. Maybe the theft would turn up more clues than the murder.

The area seemed to be mostly deserted as Vern arrived and parked. But as he got out, a figure standing on the docks and examining some fallen crates caught his eye.

It had also been released to the press that Ginger had not died in the explosion; his body had been removed from under a stack of crates. Vern shuddered now. Maybe this guy was inspecting the damage. Worse, maybe he was the murderer.

Swallowing hard, and trying to force his legs to not be globs of trembling jelly, Vern advanced. _I'm really not cut out for this line of work,_ he declared to himself. _I can't stand running into the crooks. You never know who might be carrying a gun and take a potshot at you._

Before Vern could get close enough to call out, the guy sensed he was not alone. He spun around, his eyes wide. Upon seeing Vern, he bolted.

"Hey!" Vern yelled, running after him now. "Get back here. What are you doing here?!"

The guy didn't stop. And as he reached his car and jumped in, Vern had to stare. He recognized both the guy's clothes and the car.

"You're Lou's brother," he cried, leaping out of the way of the frantic vehicle. "You're Mike Trevino!"

Mike did not slow down or stop. He sped to the edge of Vern's line of vision and then turned the corner, his car's engine roaring away.

Vern slumped back, his mouth hanging open. Mike had seen him earlier today, at the house. Unless he thought Vern was working for the bad guys, he had no reason to run.

No reason . . . unless _Mike_ was one of the bad guys.

Vern hurried back to his car. Inspecting the area would have to wait. He was going to try to catch up to Mike.

And if that didn't work, well . . . he would have to try to talk to Lou.

xxxx

Ginger was asleep on the couch when a fierce knocking on the door made Lou jump a mile. He looked up from the book he was reading, immediately setting it aside and getting out of the chair. Ginger was in a deep slumber and had not awakened; Lou wanted to keep it that way.

He peered through the peephole as he arrived at the door. His stomach sank to see Stephen Kalifer on the porch. "Rockford was right," he moaned to himself.

He opened the door, praying that Jim wasn't also right about the guy talking to Mrs. Oreck. "What do you want?" he frowned in greeting. He was also praying that Kalifer wouldn't try to enter the house. If Lou wasn't blocking the doorway, Ginger would be visible.

Kalifer wasn't in a good mood. "Mr. Trevino!" he cried, hotly. "The police have found part of a stolen crate in the remains of the warehouse!"

"So what?" Lou retorted. Jim must have found a chance to tell Lieutenant Drumm about the crate angle at some point today. Either that or the police really _had_ found part of a crate.

"So someone is responsible for that stolen property," Kalifer declared. "For all I know, it was you and your partner."

Lou glowered. "And then we'd blow up the warehouse with the stuff in it. Is that it?"

"Maybe you removed the contents and left only the empty crates, hoping to blame the theft on the warehouse company," Kalifer retorted. "Heaven knows why the warehouse blew up. Maybe you even arranged it to get rid of your partner so you wouldn't have to share the spoils."

That was the last straw. Lou's temper snapped.

"I'm sick and tired of everyone thinking wild stuff about me and Ginger!" he snarled. "No, we're not lovers. No, I'm not keeping his dead body in the house. No, we didn't rob some warehouse. And _no,_ I didn't set the explosion that helped take his life!"

Kalifer took a step back. "I have no idea what you're even talking about, Mr. Trevino," he hmphed. "But if you had anything to do with either the theft or the explosion, then mark my words, I will find out and you will be dealt with thusly." With that he turned, marching haughtily down the steps.

Lou barely resisted the urge to slam the door. He clenched his teeth, shutting it normally instead.

"What _was_ that?"

Lou sighed. He had known Ginger would likely get woke up with all the raised voices. "Oh, that nutty insurance guy," he growled. "He thinks now that we had something to do with the warehouse robbery. And that I killed you so I wouldn't have to share."

Ginger grunted, pushing himself up on the couch. "Of all the rubbish."

Lou threw his hands in the air. "I don't know if I can take much more of this," he declared. "Look at me—I'm usually the calm one while you're losing it. But this last day . . ." He shook his head, sinking onto the couch. "I'm just falling apart."

"You're still the calm one," Ginger replied. "If it were me, I would have long ago erupted at the first thing that moved. Quite possibly with my gun."

"If you were really dead, I would have, too," Lou insisted. He slumped back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. "And I'm just going nuts not being able to do anything about this. I don't like having to stand by while everyone else runs around trying to take care of it."

"I don't either," Ginger admitted. "I have to stay out of sight for your best good as well as mine. But as soon as there is an actual lead, I want to follow it."

"You won't without me," Lou vowed. "And you can't until you're feeling better."

Ginger knew Lou was right. But he didn't offer any more on the subject.

The sound of the back door flying open startled them both. "Mike?" Lou called, sitting up straight on the couch. Mike had a key to both doors, but he rarely used the back.

Ginger frowned. Mike coming in the back door could only mean trouble.

Indeed, when Mike appeared in the living room doorway, he was sheet-white in spite of trying to catch his breath.

Lou rose to meet him. "Mike, what the heck?" he exclaimed.

Mike shook his head, distressed. "Lou . . . I . . . I think I'm in trouble," he gasped.

Lou's stomach dropped. "What kind of trouble?" he demanded.

Ginger's eyes narrowed as he got to his feet. This was not what Lou needed right now!

Mike slumped against the doorway. "Ginger's going to be really mad," he said. "Maybe you will be, too. Lou . . . I might have even been involved with the explosion and I didn't even know it!"

Lou went stiff. "Mike, what are you talking about?! For crying out loud! How could you have been involved with what happened?!"

Mike swallowed hard. "Well, there were these guys. They wanted me to help them move some stuff. They said Tim's brother was moving and it was some of his knick-knacks all crated up, you know? So I went out and helped them load the stuff into a van. And it said Stanford Warehouse Company on all the crates. I didn't think anything of it; I figured they were going to put them in one of those warehouses. But now I heard about the police finding part of a crate like that at the explosion site and . . ." He trailed off, shooting worried looks at Ginger.

Lou looked overwhelmed. "Okay. So maybe you helped the crooks rob the warehouse and you didn't know it," he said. "How does that fit in with the explosion?"

"Because the very night of the explosion, they came to me again," Mike babbled. "They said they were going to store some stuff in a different warehouse and would I help them with that. Tim's been a good guy and all, a good friend, and I said Sure. So we went to this other warehouse and . . . I swear it was the same place Ginger went to, Lou. I'm sure of it! And they had me help carry some crates in there. They weren't marked Stanford; I don't think they were marked with anything. But I remember one of them kind of ticking. Tim said it was an alarm clock. I didn't have any reason to think it was a bomb!"

"And you didn't even think it when the warehouse exploded?" Ginger spoke, his voice cold and most unimpressed.

"No!" Mike insisted. "I mean, why would they blow up a warehouse? Why would they want to kill you? They don't know you!"

He stepped away from the wall, pacing around the living room. "When I heard about what the police found, I remembered all of this and started wondering." He swallowed hard. "I thought maybe they'd find my fingerprints on some of the Stanford crates and trace me to that and then somehow find out about the other crates and think I set the bombs. So I went back to the wharf. I didn't find any of those crates, but that St. Cloud guy was there and saw me. I tore out of there as fast as I could."

"And came here," Lou finished with a groan.

Mike stopped pacing and looked back. "What am I going to do, Lou? If the police don't come after me, maybe Tim and the other guys will. Maybe they'll think I'll put the pieces together and tell you and the police, so they'll try to gun me down!"

"Okay, okay." Lou moved slowly into the living room, holding his fingers to his temples. "Let's try to think. We'll go upstairs and talk to Sergeant Brice and tell him all of this. Then he'll probably call Lieutenant Drumm. And we should probably tell Rockford too."

"What if that St. Cloud guy knows, Lou?" Mike exclaimed. "He was here earlier. Maybe he was bluffing about wanting to see if you'd hire him. Maybe he's been hired to take me out!"

"Oh, come off it," Ginger said in annoyance. "He's a private investigator, not a gun for hire. And from what I know of him, he's even more of a coward than you are."

"Well, maybe he wasn't hired to kill me," Mike amended. "But what if he's following me and will tell a hitman about me?"

"I don't think so," Lou said. "But it's going to be okay, Mike. Really, it is."

Mike drew a shuddering breath. "And . . . and what if I really was carrying in some of the bombs?" he said weakly, guilt sweeping over him now.

"You wouldn't have done it if you'd known what it was," Lou said, somehow managing to keep hold of his patience even though it felt like every remaining sane thing was spiraling very fast out of control. The thought of someone cruelly tricking his brother into helping murder his best friend made him sick.

Mike looked to Ginger, questions in his eyes.

"Your fear for your life is your own worst punishment, whether you were involved in the explosion or not," Ginger said. "I am not planning any sort of revenge on you."

Mike's shoulders slumped in his relief.

"I think you were more worried about what Ginger would do than Tim or St. Cloud or anyone else," Lou observed.

"Yeah," Mike admitted. "I guess I was. But I'm still worried about them, too."

Sergeant Brice appeared at the top of the stairs. "It sounds like you might very well have reason to be worried, Mr. Trevino," he said in concern.

Mike jumped a mile. "Did you hear everything, Sergeant?" he asked in a small voice.

"A lot of it," Brice answered. "I'd like for you to tell all of it to me now, calmly, and we'll see what we can do."

xxxx

Jim felt like groaning himself when he pulled up in front of Lou and Ginger's residence and saw Vern driving up at exactly the same moment.

"Okay," Vern declared as they got out of their cars, "now this is too weird. What's going on around here?!"

"That's what I'd like to know, Vern," Jim said in exasperation. "We don't see each other for months, and all of a sudden you're everywhere, getting mixed up in my case!"

"Now it's my case too," Vern said proudly.

"What?" Jim definitely felt that groan coming on. "Who hired you?"

"The Stanford Warehouse Company," Vern announced. "I went out to the wharf to look around, and guess what? Mike Trevino was there and he bolted. He's not at his home, so I figured he came here. And there's his car, right there in the driveway." He regarded Jim in all smugness. "You can't throw me out of here this time, Rockford."

Jim frowned. "Right now, I'm not sure I want to, Vern," he admitted. "I'm more interested in what Mike was doing out there."

"He was looking over some crates," Vern said, "and acting awfully suspicious."

"Well, we'll go inside and ask Mike what he was doing. After all, he's entitled to be proven innocent, the same as anybody else."

Jim frowned as he went past Vern and up to the porch to knock. Ginger would scramble out of the way to hide if he at all knew Jim wasn't the only one coming, but what if he didn't have the chance to move and Vern saw him? Vern might blunder through the door before they were ready for him. And when they did go in, they could be here for a while addressing this problem.

Jim knocked on the door. "Hello?" he called, hoping it would give Ginger a chance to scram. "Vern St. Cloud's out here, with some interesting information on Mike. We should probably all get together in the living room and hear it."

He wondered a bit whether they might have to take Vern into their confidence. Even if Vern didn't see Ginger by accident, it would be hard to keep the truth from him if he was officially on the case now, albeit from another angle.

But he would not reveal the truth to Vern without receiving an Okay from Ginger and Lou. It would be up to them to decide—if a freak accident didn't decide for them.

After a moment the door creaked open. "If this is about him seeing Mike at the docks, I already know about it," Lou declared. "Mike's in here telling me everything."

"Well, good," Jim replied, "but I still wonder if we should hear it from Vern's point-of-view. You know how _uptight_ you get if you think someone knows something they don't."

Lou looked displeased. "He wants to come in?"

Jim shrugged. "It'd be more private than standing out here on the porch."

Lou considered that and nodded, before glancing inquiringly over his shoulder. Still hidden from Jim, Ginger was apparently giving Lou the green light on inviting Vern into the house.

In a moment the door opened wider and Jim stepped inside, followed by Vern. The other private eye could only gawk at the amazing house. "I've been inside some big places, all in the line of business, of course, but wow. I've never been anywhere like this!"

"Yeah, well . . ." Lou looked away. "The place'll be too big for me without Ginger. I'll always be thinking about him, maybe even feeling like he's still around. It'll be too weird and sad."

"So you'll be skipping out?" Vern said in disbelieving dismay. "Just leaving this place?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Lou said brusquely. "Anyway, you came in here to talk about Mike. So let's talk about him." He led them to the couch.

Vern plopped down, immediately sinking into the softness of the cushions. Jim sat more casually on the edge of the couch.

When they, Lou, and Mike were all settled, Jim encouraged Vern to tell his story. Once done, Mike again told the truth about his possible involvement in the robbery and the explosion.

Vern perked up. "This is great!" he exclaimed. Upon seeing Mike's look of shock, Vern was embarrassed and hurried on with, "Well . . . I mean, because now I have a lead to take back to my employers. They're getting awfully impatient, you know."

"I'm sure," said Jim.

Vern leaned forward. "Kid, do you have any more info on these guys? You keep talking about Tim Somebody and his brother."

Mike was weirded out to be called "Kid", but he decided to ignore it for now. "Yeah," he nodded. "Tim Carlton. His brother is Tom."

Jim made a face. "And I thought that sort of thing went out with the jitterbug," he muttered.

"I don't like ratting on them," Mike frowned. "What if they're not mixed up in this at all and everything I was doing for them really was on the level?"

"Then everything will be fine for them," Jim said firmly. "On the other hand, if they're responsible for Ginger's murder, don't you want to see to it that they're brought to justice? I know you didn't really like Ginger, but you know Lou did."

Mike sighed. "Yeah. Of course I'd want to see them brought to justice. They should pay for making Lou so unhappy. And for making me be a part of it!" A rare streak of anger ran through his voice.

"Okay then," Jim said calmly. "Then don't think of it as ratting on them. Now, who else was there besides the brothers?"

"Some other people from work," Mike remembered. "Chuck Banner and Rudy Garrow and Susie Smith."

". . . Susie Smith," Jim repeated.

"She drove the truck," Mike explained.

Vern was furiously scribbling everything down. "I'll start looking into all of these people," he promised. "Anything else?"

Mike averted his gaze. "Well . . ."

Lou watched him in a bit of concerned confusion. This wasn't an act; Mike acted like there was something he had been holding back.

"Come on, Mike!" he exclaimed. "What else is there?" He knew that Ginger was just out in the kitchen with Sergeant Brice, listening to everything. If Mike's revelation was something Ginger would not like, that was likely why Mike still hadn't told.

Mike finally sighed and looked up again. "The first time we went out, when it was just to load the truck, somebody else was there too," he confessed. "He wasn't there on the night of the explosion, I swear!"

"_Who,_ Mike?!" Lou cried.

"Donny," Mike all but whispered.

Lou rocked back, staring. Jim frowned.

Vern was just confused. "Donny?!" he repeated. "Hey, come on, don't leave it hanging there! Donny who?!"

"Waugh," Jim supplied. "The other member of the Borland Diamond gang."

"Mike, you told me you didn't have anything to do with Donny anymore," Lou protested, still reeling from the information. "You know he wasn't much of a friend, the way he just ran off and left you holding the bag on the double-cross."

"I know!" Mike retorted. "And I don't have anything to do with him anymore. That was the first time I've seen him since that night in the parking garage. That's the truth, Lou!"

Lou sighed, trying to wrestle his emotions under control. "Okay, so if you didn't invite him, who did?"

"He said he knew Tom," Mike said. "We didn't really talk much. He wasn't too happy to see me, either. I think he was worried I'd tell Ginger he was in town."

"But you didn't," said Jim.

"Hey, if I didn't tell Lou, why would I have told Ginger?" Mike retorted. "I can barely put together a logical sentence when I'm around him and Lou isn't there." He stopped, realizing his mistake. "I mean, I _could._ Of course I won't be around him anymore."

Vern got up. "I should be able to get this case wrapped up quick now," he said hopefully. "Rockford, can I trust you to keep me posted on anything you find out that ties in with the robbery angle?"

"If I can trust you to tell me anything you learn about the explosion and the murder," Jim sighed.

Vern scowled. "Well, that's only fair, I guess."

"And I guess that means we're working together on this one, doesn't it?" Jim remarked dryly.

They stared at each other, neither one liking the idea.

At last Vern looked away, running a hand through his hair. "If you can't beat 'em, I guess you really do have to join them," he sighed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jim lingered after Vern departed, wanting to speak with both Lou and Ginger in private.

"I'm not sure I like having this Vern guy mixed up in everything," Lou frowned, watching as Vern headed out to his car. "We don't really know him or if we can trust him."

Jim exhaled in resignation. "He does some stupid things, but I guess somehow he has to make it work out," he said. "He's been in business even longer than I have."

"But is he an honest P.I.?" Lou wondered. "Mike's worried that he might be working for someone who'll sic a hitman on him."

"Vern? No way," Jim scoffed. "Or at least . . ." He paused. "He'd never do it knowingly."

"So he might be caught up in it unknowingly," Ginger remarked as he moved painfully out from the kitchen.

Jim nodded. "I'm afraid that's possible. Unfortunately, I'm not sure how long we can keep your secret as long as he's around and actually has a legitimate reason to be investigating."

"If he were to find out, could he be trusted to keep it quiet?" Ginger queried.

"I honestly don't know," Jim had to admit. "Like I said, he must be doing something right, to still be in the business."

"I'd rather he didn't find out," Ginger said, sinking down on the couch.

"Okay," Jim nodded. "Then I'll do my best to make sure he doesn't."

He departed soon after, leaving Ginger and Lou to ponder on the case.

"What do you think, Ginger?" Lou wondered, seeing his friend deep in thought.

"I think we might be getting somewhere at last," Ginger mused. "On the other hand, we might only be plunging deeper into a gaggle of red herrings."

Lou sighed. "I don't think Mike's left. He's probably scared to go home, thinking Tim or somebody else might be waiting to knock him off."

"It is odd, that none of them have inquired about the state of whatever it was they stored in the warehouse," Ginger said. "Perhaps they couldn't because none of it was supposed to be there."

"And maybe some of it is what almost killed you," Lou fumed.

"If it was anyone but your brother, I wouldn't believe they weren't aware that they were possibly transporting a bomb," Ginger said dryly.

"Ginger," Lou scolded, but not with any indignation or venom. "That's terrible."

"You know as well as I that he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed," Ginger grunted. "He was so easily convinced to turn against not only someone he fears—me—but someone he loves—you. He's terrified for his own life above everything else and would probably sell us out again to save himself. And he didn't believe he was possibly carrying a ticking time bomb, even after the explosion that very night."

Lou shook his head and leaned forward, rubbing at his eyes in utter exhaustion. "Mike's always looked up to me and followed me around like some kid's puppy. He's never really learned to stand on his own; he depends on me to do it for him."

"Or he depends on Donny Waugh." Ginger folded his arms. "Perhaps we should look more seriously into the fact that Donny is still in the city."

"You don't really think he could've rigged the bombs and sent you that note, do you?" Lou said in amazement.

"He could have sent the note after the bombs were in place," Ginger said. "I don't trust him. For him to have been able to turn Mike against you, particularly when Mike regards you with a level of affection that's almost idol worship, he is a dangerous man."

"I think he is too," said Lou. "But I'm just not sure he would've had a hand in the blast."

"We should find out soon enough." Ginger was calm and collected, but Lou knew him well enough to recognize what was boiling under the surface.

"What about the other guys?" Lou wondered. "We should check up on them, too. And the girl."

"We will." Ginger forced himself up and limped to the study, where he sank down at the desk and switched on the computer.

Lou followed him, curious, and stood near the wall, his arms crossed. "What are you going to do, Ginger?"

"I'm going to see if Tim or his friends have ever wandered into the news," Ginger replied. "Meanwhile, the Sergeant is already looking into whether any of them have records."

He typed, a bit slower than usual and somewhat painstaking, but also with insistence. After thirty minutes, however, he leaned back in annoyance. He had found nothing of consequence.

Lou sighed. "Well, they've sure kept themselves out of the papers. Except for Donny, it looks like the papers don't even know these people exist."

Sergeant Brice peered into the study in time to hear that comment. "None of them have records, either," he reported, "except for Susie Smith. And hers is a juvenile rap for petty vandalism. She spray-painted a private fence with graffiti."

Ginger frowned, tapping his fingers on the desk. "I can't help feeling that Donny might be the key to everything," he said. "He might have deliberately arranged to not be around on the night of the bombing." He leaned back, pondering. "He has enough intelligence to have thought out how to steal the Borland Diamond for himself and try to cash in on the ransom money without us being allowed in on the deal."

"And he's self-serving enough to have left Mike behind when we caught up to them," Lou scowled.

"And foolish enough to have thought that they could actually get away with any of their scheme," Ginger added.

"There's just one problem," Brice said. "We've never been able to locate Donny Waugh. Lieutenant Drumm can order tails to be put on Tim and the others, maybe for suspicion of grand theft, and we might find Donny that way. But if they get wise to the fact that they're being shadowed, they might start suspecting that Mike talked and told their names. Otherwise, there shouldn't be any reason for the interest in them."

"And then there's the angle of a policeman being involved," Ginger said. "We still don't know who, if it's true at all."

Brice nodded. "The Lieutenant is still looking into that," he assured. "But we might have to take a chance now. Men could be assigned who weren't at the wharf last night."

Lou exchanged a look with Ginger. They still didn't like it, but it was indeed starting to look like they would have to bring in some more assistance. There were simply too many persons of interest for such a small investigation.

"Very well," Ginger said at last. "Talk to your Lieutenant about it. See what can be arranged."

Brice nodded and departed, heading upstairs to call Steve in private.

"Meanwhile . . ." Ginger reached for the telephone directory. "Lou, you know where some of our prison mates went on their release. Contact them and see if any of them have heard anything about Donny." His eyes narrowed. "I don't want to wait to see if tailing Mike's chums will lead us to our wayward former member. I want to find him _now._"

Lou swallowed hard, but accepted the phone book. "I'll make some calls, Ginger, but even if I can find out where Donny is, what are we going to do?"

Ginger looked thoughtful. "I wonder how he would behave if he thought he was being haunted by my ghost?"

Lou almost dropped the phone book. "Ginger, you can't!" he exclaimed. "What if he tried to shoot you?!"

"I can't imagine him being bold enough to use a gun," Ginger said. "He would likely behave very similar to your brother—quaking, stammering, and begging for mercy. If he had any involvement with my death, I don't believe it would have been as the man arranging everything behind the scenes. He isn't bright enough for that."

"Maybe not, but I don't want to risk your life on a gamble like that," Lou cried. "I _won't._"

"I wouldn't have to approach him in person," Ginger said. "I could try . . . ringing him on the phone first." He looked pleased at the thought of scaring someone who had double-crossed him and had possibly been involved with planning his murder. "You could be talking with him at his house while I conceal myself in the car and use our backup cellphone to contact him from beyond the grave."

"It's still risky," Lou said. "And a ghost that uses the telephone?"

"It's ridiculous, but if it could scare him into a confession it would be worth it," Ginger said. "I've heard about some people who played dead and rang someone on the telephone. The Selff murder case that was so notorious here some time back mentioned something like that. Before Donny could have the sense to realize I must be alive, we would have him with us and be delivering him to Lieutenant Drumm."

Lou finally located the name of the ex-con he thought might be the most helpful. "I still don't like the idea, Ginger. But let's see if I can find this creep and then we'll see if Sergeant Brice will go along with us."

Ginger nodded, agreeable enough to that. He would really prefer operating on their own, but he had decided to bring the police in on this and knew it would be utter idiocy to leave them out of this angle. Anyway, he was sure the Sergeant would go along with them, if there was a chance of obtaining results.

"Just place the call," he said.

Growing increasingly nervous, Lou set down the directory and grabbed for the phone. After a moment of agonizing ringing, someone finally answered. "Hello?"

Lou glanced to Ginger, shifting his weight as he tapped his fingers lightly on the desk. "Uh, hey, Matt," he greeted. "This is Lou. You remember, Lou Trevino from stir? Yeah. How're things going?"

Ginger regarded him in exasperation, his expression clearly saying _You're not calling to make small talk!_

Lou waved him off. The best way to get Matt to be helpful was to inquire after his well-being first. Ginger knew how to be polite too, at times, albeit he had always detested small talk and tried to avoid making it whenever possible.

"Really? That's great." Lou hesitated. Matt was now asking him about the explosion. "Yeah," he said, slipping back into his semi-act. "That was Ginger they killed. It's tough, Matt, real tough. I don't think I've really processed yet that he's gone. It's just too strange. I mean, even in stir we were together.

"Actually, that's why I'm calling, Matt. I heard that Donny Waugh was still in town and I started wondering if he might know anything about Ginger's death. You remember he double-crossed us, right? Well, if you've got any leads on where he is right now, I'd sure appreciate it."

Ginger came to attention, watching as Lou stiffened. Matt must be giving him quite a hot lead.

"You're sure about that?" Lou gasped. "Oh . . . oh no, I don't mean to question you, Matt. I'm just stunned, is all. Yeah. Yeah, sure. Thanks. I'll let you know what happens." He hung up, rocking back and looking overwhelmed.

"He knew something, I take it," Ginger said.

Lou looked to him. "Ginger, he says it's pretty well-known in the local underworld that Donny is working for a big mobster under a fake name!"

Ginger raised an eyebrow. "That isn't such Earth-shattering information."

"No, but this is. He thinks the mobster is Jackie Delano!"

Ginger went stiff. He would have bolted out of the chair, had he been well enough to do so. "Get Sergeant Brice," he ordered. "I don't imagine we'll have too much trouble getting him to agree to the plan."

Lou nodded and hurried off without protest. Maybe they were getting somewhere.

xxxx

Jim and Vern each tracked Tim Carlton and his crew to a local truckers' stop where Susie worked part-time. As the private eyes got out of their respective cars, they could see the group through the large window—boisterous, irritating, and intent on scarfing down food as fast as they could go.

"I've got a feeling this isn't going to go well," Jim mused, half to himself.

As he and Vern noticed each other, Vern glowered and grumbled, "Yeah, for more reasons than one." But then Vern sighed and gestured in resignation. "Come on, Rockford. I guess we might as well go in together."

Jim gave in and started walking across the parking lot with his rival. "Vern, why is it that you're always such a grouch, anyway?"

Vern was not amused. "Me? Let's not fool each other, Rockford. You don't like me any better than I like you."

"Alright," Jim conceded. "I'll admit I'm guilty of that. But you don't go out of your way to be a very likable guy."

"It depends on the company I keep," Vern said. "I always say that the P.I. business is a dog-eat-dog profession. And you know, usually I get proven right."

"I helped you get your license back, didn't I?" Jim returned.

"It wasn't for me," Vern shot back. "You didn't like what was being done to 'your friends'. And you as much as admitted that I wasn't one of your friends. I was just along for the ride. You helped me so you could get my dough when I paid you."

"Sometimes I really regret putting you back on the streets, too," Jim mused. "As hard as you were to live with back then, you got a lot worse since you got your license back."

Vern glowered and didn't reply. They had arrived at the door by now, and he simply hauled it open, silent. As he stepped inside, he absently held it open enough for Jim to slip through before letting it swing shut.

Everyone, including Susie behind the counter, turned to look. "Who are you?" Susie demanded.

"Jim Rockford and Vern St. Cloud," Jim drawled, briefly holding out his identification to the group. "We're private investigators, looking into the warehouse explosion on Wharf 33 last night."

"Yeah. So?" Susie leaned on the counter. "How does some crook getting killed affect us?"

"Maybe it doesn't, except that we heard you were storing things in that warehouse right before it blew up." Jim replaced his identification in his pocket and leaned on the counter. "Now, it seems strange to me that you haven't asked the police about any of your stuff."

"Unless it was something you didn't want them to know you had anything to do with," Vern chimed in.

"Sure, we were moving stuff," somebody said. A closer look at the tag on his shirt revealed the name _Tim._ "We just figured it'd all been blown to Kingdom Come, so no sense asking about it."

"And you asked Mike Trevino to help you, didn't you?" Jim pressed.

"Yeah," Tim said, looking up from a giant hot dog dripping with catsup and mustard. "Like we told him, my brother was moving and he had a bunch of junk he needed to relocate."

"Mike said he heard something ticking in one of the crates," Jim said. "Isn't that rather unusual for something that's supposed to be in storage?"

"That must have been the crate with Tom's alarm clock collection," Tim shrugged.

"Or a bomb," Vern insisted. "You know, the guy that got offed, he knew Mike."

"It's a small world, man," a guy with the nametag _Chuck_ spoke up. "Almost everybody knows everybody, especially when it's really weird."

"You're not even going to deny it could have been a bomb?" Jim said in amazed disbelief.

"Sure, it could have been," Tim said. "But there wouldn't have been any point in it. You're not suggesting that Mike wanted us to kill the guy, are you? Or that we brought him in on it because we were planning to kill the guy he knew?"

"Well, now, I'm not the one who said any of those things, Tim Boy," Jim said. "You did. I didn't even say that Mike and Ginger were on bad terms. For all you'd know, Ginger could have been his friend and Mike would've been very upset by his death."

Tim grimaced, realizing he had made a mistake.

"So why don't we get down to business and you tell us why you thought they weren't all buddy-buddy?" Jim went on, strolling around the room to where Tim was and leaning on that end of the counter. "Hmm?"

Tim scowled. "I guess I heard it on the news or something. Okay?"

"They weren't saying anything like that on the news," Vern retorted.

Jim nodded. "The only thing they mentioned was that Ginger was friendly with Lou Trevino, Mike's brother. And if that's all you had to go on, you might just think that Mike liked him okay, too."

"It must've been something Donny said, then," Tim said.

Rudy, the only one who hadn't yet spoke at all, glanced up. "That's right," he said. "It was the other day, when Donny was there the first time and he and Mike ran into each other. He asked Mike how things were going and if Ginger and Lou were still business partners. Mike said Yes and mentioned that he couldn't understand why Lou wanted anything to do with a creepy guy like that. Donny agreed and said that Lou must be really far-out. Mike said that Lou was just really tolerant."

"That makes sense," Jim said. "But what's this about Donny being there 'the first time'? Was he there other times?"

"Yeah, he's with us sometimes," Rudy said.

"But I just meant that he was there the first time we were moving Tom's stuff," Tim added quickly. "He wasn't there the second time."

"Oh? Why was that?"

"He just wasn't available," Tim shrugged.

"What's with calling him Donny, anyway?" Vern exclaimed. "I thought he was using a fake name now!"

"Maybe he just changed his last name," Jim said, seeing the sea of blank looks. "Unless everybody's putting on a new act, they're not aware that he's using a false name. His real name is Donny Waugh, by the way."

"He's Donny Braddock to us," Rudy said. "I guess he figured 'Donny' was a common enough name that he didn't have to change that."

"Or maybe he figured he wouldn't remember something else," Chuck snarked.

"Okay, okay." Tim set the hot dog down and half-turned on the stool to look at Jim. "Anyway, so that's all we know. We were moving Tom's stuff, Mike must have had his alarm clock collection, and we didn't set any bombs. Is that all?"

"For now," Jim said finally. "Except, where's Tom moving to?"

"Just elsewhere in the county," Tim said. "He's at the new place now."

"I'd like to chew the fat with him too. Have you got the address handy?"

Tim recited it and Jim scribbled it down on the back of the restaurant's business card. "Thanks," he said, slipping it into his pocket.

Vern had other ideas. "Do you know where Donny lives?" he wondered. "And hey, can anybody get a bite to eat around here or is it just for truckers and truckers' friends?" He eyed the hefty hot dog hungrily.

"If you've got dough, you've got food," Susie said. "And no, we don't know where Donny lives. Maybe Rudy does, though. We know Donny through him."

Vern's eyes lit up. "Great," he exclaimed, claiming a stool.

Jim wondered whether Vern's exclamation had to do with being able to order dinner or finding out that one of these clowns might know about Donny's location. But he could make a guess.

"I don't know, either," Rudy said. "But he works for Jackie Delano, so maybe he knows."

Now Vern groaned. "I've gotta go back and talk to that windbag again?!"

"I'll take care of it, Vern," Jim quickly inserted. "You go ahead and enjoy your meal. I'll see you around."

"Oh yeah?" Vern looked up, pleased. "Hey, thanks, Rockford."

"No problem, Vern. I'm only doing it because I want to know where Donny is, too," Jim bluffed. He didn't particularly want it to get out through talking to Delano that he already knew Donny's address.

Well, he amended as he headed out the door, maybe it was only a half-bluff. He _did_ think maybe he should try talking to Donny again. He was running up against dead-ends all over the place. If one of those dead-ends was hiding a secret passageway, sooner or later one of them would have to give. And Donny seemed a likely possibility for a crack.

Mike too, maybe. On the one hand, Jim really felt that Mike had already cracked as wide open as he could. But on the other hand, he hadn't revealed that he had seen Donny for quite some time. Maybe he was still hiding something else.

Hopefully it wasn't his guilt in the matter of an attempted murder.

"Hey! Rockford!"

Jim started at the sudden voice. "What is it, Vern?" he sighed, seeing the other private eye appearing in the doorway.

"You're going to let me know what Delano says, aren't you?" Vern frowned.

"Of course, Vern," Jim said. "You're on this case too."

Vern still looked suspicious. "That hasn't stopped you from keeping information to yourself before. It didn't stop some of the others, either."

"Others?"

"That's not important now. But if I don't hear back from you soon, Rockford, I'll be calling you," Vern warned.

"I'm sure you will, too," Jim muttered as he headed to the Firebird.

xxxx

To say that Jackie Delano was displeased to see the police for the second time that day would be an understatement. But Steve didn't have to lean on him too much before he revealed where Donny was currently living. "I was going to call you guys about it anyway, right after my shows got over," he insisted.

Steve didn't buy it for a minute, but he had better things to do than argue with the unusual mobster. Instead he left, returning to the car where Brice had opted to wait with Ginger and Lou.

"We've got an address," Steve reported. He climbed into the car and Brice sped off, following the directions as Steve recited them.

"Now, you're _sure_ that your neighbors didn't see you leave the house?" Steve demanded once Brice was heading in the right direction.

"We already went through this, Lieutenant," Lou protested, although he was still concerned himself. "We went out the back door and Ginger had on Mike's jacket. It was pretty dark, though. I don't think anyone saw us."

"I would hope not," Ginger said in irritation. "Your brother's clothing preferences are nothing like my own." He had shed the jacket as soon as they had gotten into the car, preferring instead to keep low in the seat to avoid being spotted.

Steve sighed. "And Mike's back at the house."

"There's a police guard for him, isn't there, Lieutenant?" Lou demanded. "Just in case there's trouble? You said you'd make sure someone was there to watch out for him."

"Officer James Anderson is there," Steve assured him. "Your brother's in good hands."

Lou tried to relax. "I hope so."

xxxx

Steve's eyes narrowed when they pulled up in front of Donny's house only to discover Jim's Firebird pulling in as well. "This private eye really is ending up everywhere we are," Steve remarked.

"Lieutenant Anderson sure wouldn't like that," Brice said.

"Another Anderson?" Lou raised an eyebrow.

"Oh . . . Officer Anderson's cousin," Steve said, sounding distracted as he got out of the car.

"Well," Jim said, going over to meet Steve halfway, "isn't this turning into a party. So you got Donny's address too, huh?"

"I'd say the real question is, how did _you_ get it, Mr. Rockford?" Steve returned.

"Probably the same way you did," Jim replied. "Delano gave it to me." But he saw no need to say exactly _when_ that had happened.

Steve sighed, not wanting to take the time to question the matter further. "Alright. Well, we're going to try something here. If you're planning to talk to Mr. Waugh too, you'd better be in on it."

Jim was about to ask when he spotted Lou in the car. "Lou's going to talk to him?" he said, incredulous. "I'm sure he still won't open up."

Steve quirked a smile. "We're going to make him think he's being haunted by a very unhappy ghost. It's ridiculous and unorthodox and I can't say that I entirely approve, but if it works it will have done some good."

"What? Ginger's here too?" Jim came over closer to the car, peering inside. Ginger rose up slightly, looking back.

"Sergeant Brice is going to stay here with him," Lou said. He started to get out of the car, but hesitated, looking back at Ginger in concern.

"I'll be fine," Ginger insisted. He took out the cellphone. "I'm going to ring him now. Perhaps he'll be more willing to answer questions when he opens the door to you and the Lieutenant."

Jim crossed his arms. "This I've got to see," he said.

Ginger dialed the number and waited. After a moment Donny's voice came on the line, confused as well as tense. "Hello? Who is this?"

"An old acquaintance." Ginger spoke darkly, throwing even more gravel into his voice than usual. "I'm sure you remember me, don't you, Donny?"

Donny let out a stunned, choked gasp. "This is some kind of a trick," he declared. "It has to be—you're dead! I don't have to worry about you coming after me anymore!"

"You've heard of restless spirits, I trust. I won't be ready to move on until I know who murdered me."

"And somebody put the finger on me, is that it?!" Donny cried. "Well, they're lying, whoever it is! I don't know who did it, Ginger. Honest, I don't!"

"I really can't believe that. If you don't know, you should be able to easily find out. Was it Tim Carlton and his gang, perhaps? Or your esteemed boss, Jackie Delano? Maybe it was even _you._"

"No, it wasn't me! Ginger, I swear it!"

Without warning the front door flew open and Donny rushed out, gripping a cordless phone in his hand. He ground to a shocked halt when Steve and Lou, with Jim coming up right behind them on the front walkway, met him on the porch.

"Alright, Mr. Waugh," Steve said calmly, reaching for Donny's arm. "How about we go down to the station for a nice chat?"

"And some answers," Lou growled. "I'm going to find out who killed Ginger, no matter what."

"He's on the phone right now!" Donny cried, waving the handset at Lou even as they descended the steps. "I mean, his ghost is or something. Unless someone's just pulling a prank."

"What?" Lou grabbed the phone. "You're crazy."

"I'm waiting for a reply, Donny," Ginger said.

"There!" Donny exclaimed. "He's there. You heard that, didn't you?!"

"I didn't hear anything but your whining," Lou said.

"Same here," Jim said smoothly.

Donny looked to them and Steve in dismay. "Oh, come on!" he said. "There's no such thing as ghosts. I'm not hearing Ginger's voice. I _couldn't_ be hearing his voice. But if none of you hear it at all . . ."

"Not a thing," said Jim.

By now they had reached the car. Ginger turned off the cellphone and slipped it into his pocket, instead leaning against the back seat as Steve unlocked and opened the car door. He looked up at Donny with calm, cold precision. "I'm still waiting for your answer."

Donny nearly fainted dead away. Only barely managing to keep hold of his senses, he looked to Lou with accusations in his eyes. "He's not dead! Somehow he survived and you set up this creepy prank!"

"Of course he's dead," Lou retorted. "What are you going on about?"

"Oh, don't tell me you can't see him. He's _there._ Right there!" Donny pointed at the seat in desperation.

Steve prodded him to get into the car. "There's no one there, Mr. Waugh," he said.

Donny grabbed the edges of the doorframe, resisting getting inside. "I'll tell you what you want to know!" he wailed. "Just don't make me ride with him."

"Who set those bombs?!" Steve demanded.

"Mike!" Donny said. "I'm sorry, Lou, but it's true. The other day Mike told me he just couldn't stand being around Ginger and he was going to do something about it once and for all."

Lou was staring in outraged disbelief. But before he could open his mouth and defend his brother's honor, Ginger leaned forward and snatched Donny's shirt. "You're lying," he hissed.

Donny went stiff. "I'm not lying, Ginger," he said. "I swear I'm not."

Ginger fixed him with a harsh, frozen stare. It didn't take long before Donny had had enough.

"Alright, so I lied," he snapped. "Tim Carlton and his friends were contacted about killing you and setting Mike up to look like the patsy."

"Who hired them?" Ginger demanded, still in that cold, no-nonsense tone of voice.

"I don't know," Donny insisted. "I don't even know if they're the ones who took the job. But it was someone they met at Josephine's Grill who wanted them to do it. You know that place? It's just new."

"Yeah," Jim spoke up. "We know that place."

Ginger relaxed back into the seat and Steve finally managed to ease Donny into the car. "Thank you, Mr. Waugh," Steve said. "Now we're going to the station so you can answer a few more questions. Not to mention to book you for the Borland Diamond robbery at long last." Amid Donny's protests, Steve read him his rights.

Lou climbed back into the car as well. Donny cringed, not liking being squeezed in between two of his old partners in crime—two that he had betrayed.

Ginger regarded him with a cool and unamused look. "By the way," he said, snapping the seatbelt into place, "of course you're right; I'm not dead. But now that you have tried to convince us that Lou's idiot brother is a cold-hearted murderer, you may have more to worry about from him than I."

Donny swallowed hard, looking to Lou glaring at him. He shrank into the seat, wishing he were invisible.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Jim really shouldn't have been surprised when he pulled into the parking lot where he kept his trailer and found Vern waiting for him. In fact, he supposed, he really wasn't surprised. But he was definitely exasperated.

"Vern, it's been a long day," he said. He hadn't even gone to find Tom Carlton yet. He thought he'd try that in the morning, after a nice, long sleep.

"You didn't get in touch with me," Vern retorted. "And when I tried going to Delano's place myself, he was in bed! So I came back here to wait for you. What about Donny Waugh?!"

"The police have him," Jim said tiredly.

"Yeah? Did he say anything?" Vern demanded, perking up.

"He said that somebody contacted Tim Carlton's group at Josephine's Grill about killing Ginger and making Mike the patsy," Jim said. "But he's not sure if they're the ones that took the job." Donny didn't seem to know about Mike having been there that night and carrying a ticking box. It seemed likely to Jim that Tim's group had indeed taken the job.

"Josephine's?" Vern stopped and blinked. "Hey, that's kind of a funny coincidence, isn't it? You were checking the place out just this afternoon."

"Yeah," Jim said slowly, wondering whether he should bring Vern into his confidence about the possible restaurant angle. "Isn't it."

"Why _were_ you there, anyway?" Vern frowned. "It wasn't just to try out the food, was it?"

Finally Jim sighed in resignation. "No, Vern, it wasn't," he conceded. "I heard something about the place that I was trying to investigate."

"What was that?" Vern wondered, honestly confused and curious.

"Whether or not someone's using the restaurant to sell narcotics," Jim said. "Somebody gave me a tip that he thought drugs were being smuggled in special packets of sugar and salt. I know it sounds crazy, but . . ."

"Crazy?!" Vern stared at Jim as though his hair had turned purple. "Boy, that's an understatement. How would they keep just anybody from getting the special packets?!"

"They'd give them to the customers themselves," Jim said. "And there's probably some kind of codeword or phrase they'd use to identify the ones they're supposed to give the drugs to. It almost sounded like one of the waitresses was testing Gene Torg today to see if he knew the code phrase. He didn't seem to."

"Gene Torg? That two-bit conman wouldn't be caught dead with narcs," Vern objected.

"I know, that's what I figured," Jim retorted. "But anyway, the point is that I couldn't tell if something weird was going on there. And apparently if it is, it's gone right over your dome."

"They're still open," Vern said. "They're an all-night joint. Let's go down there right now and see what's going on!"

Jim was exhausted, but he had to admit that he wanted to go back there himself and look around some more. If Vern was willing, maybe they should go tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow. "If we did, how would we keep from looking suspicious?" he said. "You ate at Susie's place, didn't you?"

"Well . . ." Vern shrugged. "I didn't have dessert."

Shaking his head, Jim turned to head back to the Firebird.

xxxx

Not only was Josephine's still open, business seemed to be booming even though it was getting on in hours. Jim raised an eyebrow at the many filled tables and booths as he and Vern came in the front door.

"If something _is_ going on here, maybe this is a time when it's likely to be happening," he said to Vern in an undertone. "Keep watching for anything weird."

"What, like sugar and salt packets floating around?" Vern retorted in a whisper that Jim hoped wasn't too loud.

"Floating around in a way that's not usual," Jim corrected.

"Yeah? And how would that be?"

"Hopefully you'd know if you saw it."

They settled into a booth that afforded a good view of most of the rest of the establishment. Vern placed an order for dessert and Jim opted for a late dinner. Nothing seemed that strange as they waited; others made their orders and the waitresses took them, soon returning with the food.

It was some time after Jim and Vern had their orders delivered that something odd started to happen. Barely anybody actually asked for extra sugar or salt packets, Jim noted. And indeed, with saltshakers on every table, there really shouldn't be any need to ask for that at all. But two or three people did ask, saying they wanted a certain variety other than common table salt.

Most of the requests were for sugar packets. And with both types of orders, the waitress would bring the container with the packets arranged in rows, just as she had for Gene and Pearl. For most of the customers, the first two rows were selected. Only a handful of people were given packets from the other two rows. And while it looked like they were using the contents on their food, Jim really couldn't tell if they might just be pantomiming the motions for appearance's sake.

"You know, there's no way we're going to really figure out what's going on unless we try ordering some of that stuff," Vern remarked.

Jim hadn't even been sure Vern was paying attention. He sighed. "Unfortunately, that's true. Alright, you order the sugar and I'll order the salt and we'll see what we come up with." He thought he had managed to catch what seemed to be the code phrase for the "special" packets, but he wasn't fully sure. He just had to hope that over the sounds of the crowded restaurant he had heard it right.

"Excuse me!" he called. "Waitress?" She looked up with a start. He tried to set her at ease with a smile. "We'd like some of the extra packets, please."

She came over, peering uneasily at them both. "Weren't you guys both in here earlier?"

"I'm in here all the time," Vern declared.

"He likes the food," Jim said. "And it's pretty good. But it'd be even better with a little something more." He eyed the packets. "The salt on the right, if you please."

She immediately reached for the second-to-last row.

"Hey, come on," Vern said. "He said the right. The next row over."

She still hesitated. "That's a very . . . unique kind of salt. Not everyone likes it."

"Well, I do," Jim said firmly. "What is this? What happened to the customer is always right?"

That was the phrase he had heard several of the other customers use. And it certainly had an effect on the waitress. She perked up and seemed relieved. "Oh. Of course, Sir." She smiled, moving to the far right row. "How many do you want?"

"Let's try four, for starters," Jim said.

"And I want the sugar," Vern declared. "I'm another customer who's always right. I'll take six."

She doled out the packets, still smiling brightly. "Enjoy. Let me know if you want anything else."

"Thanks, Honey." Jim watched as she hurried off, taking the container back into the kitchen.

Vern promptly leaned across the table. "Well?"

Jim had stuffed most of the packets into his blazer pocket. The fourth he held under the table and pulled open just enough to shake a few grains onto his finger. Then, pretending to get some food from the plate on his finger instead, he brought it up to his lips and tasted it.

". . . If it's salt, it's a new variety that tastes a lot like heroin," he muttered.

Vern's eyes widened. "So we've got 'em!" he said excitedly.

Jim nodded. "For passing drugs, sure. But that doesn't prove they killed Ginger."

Vern frowned. ". . . Hey, I just realized. How do you figure these people pay for their junk?"

"They probably receive some very large checks for their orders," Jim mused. "Vern, get up and call the police. Tell them that this place is being used as a narco drop."

A gun suddenly clicked dangerously close to Jim's ear. "Keep sitting down, Vern," an unfamiliar voice growled. "If you don't want to risk having a terrible accident."

Vern went sheet-white and rocked back in the booth. "Oh no!" he croaked. "No, don't worry. I'm not movin'."

Jim went stiff. "There's no need for a gun. Come on, what are you going to do? Shoot me right here in front of all these witnesses?"

The thug in the booth behind him just smirked, darkly. "Most of these witnesses are on our side. The few who really are just innocent customers, well . . . it'd all happen so fast that none of them would know what they were seeing."

Jim knew that was likely unfortunately, sadly true. "Okay then," he said. "What's your game plan?"

"Just finish your food, nice and slow," the thug replied. "You don't want to get indigestion. And I'll just sit here and make sure you eat."

Jim was not impressed. "And when we're through, we get to take a nice, long ride to nowhere. Am I right?"

Vern whimpered.

"Pretty much. So . . ." The thug sneered. "Have a good last meal."

"This isn't what you did to Ginger Townsend," Jim remarked. "Why aren't we getting the same treatment? Is it too risky to blow up another warehouse?"

"I didn't do anything to Ginger Townsend." The thug sounded confused and nervous. Jim wondered whether it was because he couldn't understand why Jim would suspect him or because he really hadn't been involved.

The case was growing so convoluted. What if there really had been another reason why Ginger had been targeted? What if it didn't have anything to do with the restaurant, even though they were apparently engaged in drug smuggling just as he had thought?

Jim decided to probe a little more. "Ginger knew about what you guys have going here," he said. "He told Lou Trevino right before he was killed. And Lou told me. So if you were hoping to silence him, Pal, you were a little too late."

Now the thug was silent, thinking. "Just eat your food."

"How the heck am I supposed to not get indigestion when I know you're planning to _kill_ us when we're done?!" Vern wailed.

"Stay calm, Vern," Jim said. "If it's possible. We'll get out of this."

"How, Rockford?! Just tell me how!" Vern retorted. "Nobody even knew we were coming here!"

Jim glanced around the room. Vern's rising voice was drawing attention from every patron of the restaurant. Murmurs of surprise and shock were filling the air.

"Well, for one thing, he can't kill us until we leave," he said. "And for another, there's some people here who aren't mixed up in the drug racket. They're hearing you."

"Yeah, and they could all end up being slated for a quick death, just like us!"

For once Jim didn't mind Vern's screaming. The thug, on the other hand, was squirming. He definitely minded. Nervous, he slipped the gun back into his dark trenchcoat.

"Just keep broadcasting our situation, Vern," Jim said with a smile. "We're going to be just fine."

xxxx

The house looked normal and unscathed from the outside. Ginger and Lou regarded it in cautious relief as Sergeant Brice pulled into the driveway.

"Well, maybe nothing happened while we were gone," Lou said. He moved to get out of the car and noticed the red jacket on the seat. "Oh, Ginger. . . ."

Ginger looked to it. Exasperated, he pulled it on. Masquerading as Mike was possibly dangerous too, but at least Mike was supposed to be alive. If Ginger appeared as himself and was seen, Lou was sure that would be far worse.

"You know," Ginger commented, "if anyone got a decent look at us, even at night, they would see I'm not Mike. My hair is too light."

"I know, but right now it's the best we've got." Lou climbed out and then waited in case Ginger needed help.

Ginger did. He stumbled and swayed as soon as he departed the car. Lou steadied him, placing his hands on Ginger's shoulders. Embarrassed but grateful, Ginger balanced himself with the car as long as he walked alongside it.

Mike and Officer Anderson were both waiting when Lou unlocked the back door and he, Ginger, and Sergeant Brice stepped into the kitchen.

"Well?" Mike greeted in concern. "Did it work out?"

Ginger noted that he seemed tense. Lou was ready to write it off as being worry for them—or at least for him—but Ginger wasn't as sure.

"Donny didn't say much," Lou sighed. "Except to try to blame it on you. Lieutenant Drumm took him to the station and is still grilling him there."

Mike blinked. "Donny tried to say that _I'm_ the one who tried to kill Ginger?!" he cried.

"That's right," Ginger grunted. "That's quite a friend you've got."

"You're one to talk," Mike muttered.

Ginger snapped to attention. "What was that?"

Mike started and looked away. "Nothing, Ginger. It was nothing."

Lou frowned. "Hey, something's eating at you, Mike. What is it? Did something happen while we were gone?"

Mike spun back to face him. "Yeah, Lou. Something happened! Here, come in here and you can hear it." He marched into the living room and over to the telephone. Confused, Lou and Ginger followed. Sergeant Brice and Officer Anderson trailed after them.

Very deliberately and in determination, Mike pressed the Playback button on the answering machine. _"You have one new message,"_ the device intoned.

The next voice they heard was muffled and deadly. _"You think you're so smart. But we know Ginger is alive. We know you're keeping him there, Lou. And it doesn't matter how much police protection you have or even if you try to leave. Your house is always being watched. And whenever we want to, we can go in and kill the lot of you. It's too bad you care about Ginger so much, Lou. That's going to be your death sentence."_

Officer Anderson was grim. "I wasn't sure what to do about it, Sergeant," he said to Brice. "I called Andy and he said that he'd come by and take it to the crime lab. But he wanted Mr. Trevino and Mr. Townsend to hear it and see if they could place the voice."

"I can't," Ginger growled. "It's too muffled."

"I don't recognize it either," Lou admitted. "I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman! But wait a minute." He looked to Officer Anderson. "You told somebody else?!"

"My cousin," the boy explained. "He's absolutely upright, Mr. Trevino. Lieutenant Drumm and Sergeant Brice will both vouch for him in an instant, if my word isn't good enough."

Brice nodded. "You don't have to worry about Lieutenant Anderson. He'd drop dead before he'd even think of doing anything illegal."

Lou sighed, still not sure he liked it but knowing there wasn't anything to do about it now. "Okay."

Ginger was looking towards the window, thoughtful. "Someone either has to be watching us from another house on the block or has planted a miniaturized camera or listening device somewhere on the premises. We and the police all did a thorough check for the latter, but I wasn't convinced something couldn't still be hidden somewhere."

"You take it all so calm," Mike said. "They threatened Lou's life because of you! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Ginger looked back to Mike with a start, his eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?" His voice was dark, dangerous. Normally that warning tone would have immediately shut Mike up, but the message had him too upset.

"You shouldn't even be staying here," Mike declared. "You should have gone somewhere else to hide out. Coming back here just puts Lou in as much danger as you!"

Lou stared, his mouth hanging open. "Mike, calm down," he exclaimed. "Ginger probably would've left if he could have made it out of here. And if I hadn't insisted I'd stay with him wherever he went."

Mike glanced to him. "Yeah, he's always had some kind of hold over you, Lou. And I just don't get it! Not even him shooting me could make you decide to get rid of him. You love him and he just takes advantage of that! Can't you see he doesn't really care about anything except himself?"

Ginger's eyes burned. The instant Mike saw it, he knew he had crossed a line he had never meant to cross. His outrage abandoned him, leaving utter fear and terror in its place.

"You insolent fool!" Ginger struck out, hitting Mike across the face and snapping his head to the side. With all of the rest of his strength, Ginger took hold of Mike's shirt and shoved him against the wall. "In all of your self-righteous, hypocritical preaching, did you ever once remember who was quite possibly carrying the bombs that got us all into this mess? Or that several hours ago you were too frightened to leave here, even though your insistence on lingering could have put Lou in just as much danger as my presence could?!" He shook the horrified Mike. "Did any of that occur to you even once?!"

Lou gaped in disbelieving shock at both of them. He had always known that someday the trouble between Ginger and Mike would come to a head, but he had never once imagined it would be like this. He wasn't even sure he could deal with it now, on top of everything else. But if Ginger didn't calm down, he would have to deal with it.

Brice and Anderson were also staring, poised to break up the confrontation if it got any worse.

Mike's legs had become jelly. "N-No," he gasped. "No, I wasn't thinking about any of that." He reached up with a shaking hand, touching Ginger's wrist. "Ginger, please don't kill me! Lou, help! Don't let him do anything to me. Please . . . please . . ."

Ginger's lip curled in disgust. He stepped back, releasing Mike and allowing him to crash to his knees. "You're not even worth the effort."

Officer Anderson's jaw was slack. "Mr. Trevino, do you want to press charges?" he asked, looking to Mike, who vehemently shook his head.

"No. No charges. Oh gosh, Lou, I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me. I mean, I _do_ know what got into me. I heard that phone message and I just snapped. But Ginger's right. I've been putting you in danger just as much as he has. And I was carrying the bombs. . . ."

"We don't know it was the bombs!" Lou finally managed to exclaim. "And we don't know that anyone's out for your blood, Mike. Somebody wanted to make you the patsy for Ginger's death, but that doesn't mean they'll come gunning for you."

Mike looked up in shock. "What?" he choked. "Somebody was trying to make it look like I killed Ginger?"

"That's right, and I don't know how they could have," Ginger snarled. "You wouldn't have the nerve, even if you wanted me dead with all of your heart. No one would believe you capable of murder."

"Just shut up, both of you!" Lou screamed.

Ginger and Mike froze, looking to Lou in shock. Now _he_ was the one who had reached his boiling point.

"I care about both of you," Lou ranted. "I know you can't stand each other, but in a mess like this, at least, can't you even just _try_ to get along?! Can't you do that much, for yourselves and for me, too?!"

They stood, staring each other down, Ginger and Mike stunned and Lou fuming.

Ginger was the first to break the spell. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. With that he turned and limped out of the room.

Mike's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry too, Lou," he said quietly, guilt saturating his voice. "You know that isn't like me, yelling at Ginger like that." He shuddered.

"Usually you're too scared of him to even think of it," Lou supplied. "But Mike, I've told you that you don't have to be scared of him. He won't do anything to you. He won't because he knows what you mean to me. The shooting . . . he was trying to get you to stop running. He wasn't trying to kill you."

"I know you've said that, Lou, and I try to believe you, but it's hard," Mike said. "And you're so convinced he cares about you. Well, I'm not. I'm sorry I can't be, but I'm just not." He drew a shaking breath. "But I don't want to stay here and put you in any more danger than you're already in. I'm going to go back home."

Lou took a step forward. "Mike, don't do that," he pleaded.

"Officer Anderson will be my bodyguard," Mike said. "Won't you?"

"Of course," Anderson said, snapping to attention.

"I still think you should stay here," Lou frowned.

Mike shook his head. "Ginger was right, Lou. How can I yell at him for putting you in danger when I did the same thing and didn't think about your safety either? Maybe he's not willing to leave, but I am."

". . . Are you really leaving to protect your brother?" Brice suddenly spoke. "Or do you just want to prove you're a bigger man than Ginger is?"

Mike froze. ". . . I didn't even stop to think of that," he admitted. "I guess . . . I'm not sure."

Lou sighed. "The only way we're going to come through this is if we stick together," he said. "We can't be splitting up all over the place. Please, Mike. Please stay. If you go, I'll just be staying awake worrying about you all night."

Mike looked down, feeling guilty again. "I'm sorry, Lou. I guess if that's the case, I could stay."

Lou managed a weak smile. "Good."

Mike hesitated. ". . . What about Ginger, though?"

Lou moved to the kitchen doorway, where he was sure both of them could hear him. "It'll be okay, Mike. Ginger won't hurt you. And he'll deal with you being here right now because as long as you might not be safe away from here, I want you to stay."

He lightly tapped the woodwork with his hand. "I know that the reason you and he snapped is because you both care about me. Ginger took what you were saying until you accused him of not caring. He wasn't going to take that, especially from you."

Mike finally nodded. "I guess." He sighed. "And I guess I'll go back to my room in the basement. Thanks, Lou, for still wanting me here."

Lou sighed. "If you and Ginger could get along, I'd be happy for you to live here all the time," he said. "But since neither of you can take it, it wouldn't be fair. Just stay until the danger's over, Mike. Please."

"I will," Mike promised.

Lou nodded in approval and trudged into the kitchen. He had snapped at the two people he cared about most in the world, both because it had been the final straw and because he didn't want to see them fighting over him. Now he felt absolutely drained. The sting of his initial rebuke was going to stay with him for a long time. He knew that.

Ginger was sitting at the table, his arms crossed as he glowered at the finished wood. Lou sank into the chair across from him. "Hey," he said quietly, laying a hand on Ginger's arm when he didn't look up. When Ginger's eyes slowly met his, he continued. "Ginger, I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said when I told you and Mike to shut up. Everything's been eating at all of us. I guess I finally just ran down all the way."

"You meant it," Ginger said matter-of-factly. "And I'm sorry I put that stress on you. You know I've tried to tolerate your brother for your sake. He finally got to me."

"I know," Lou said. "And really, I don't blame either you or Mike. You're both just worried."

"I didn't appreciate his accusation, either."

"Of course not. Ginger, I know you care about me. Maybe someday, Mike will know it too."

"Perhaps." But Ginger was unconvinced.

"You didn't hurt yourself when you grabbed Mike, did you?"

"No. Not really." Ginger's arms were sore now, and his hand was throbbing, but those things were minor and he didn't intend to mention them.

". . . You know I've wondered whether to leave," he said instead.

"Yeah. But it wouldn't work, Ginger. I'd come with you. And whoever's after you would follow us in either case. Or if I didn't go, they might come try to beat it out of me. I'd probably get killed and it'd all be pointless."

Ginger nodded. "That was the conclusion I arrived at as well, even without knowing that we're under constant surveillance by our enemies."

He hesitated. "When I first pulled myself out of the water, I wasn't sure what I would plan to do. I thought perhaps I should disappear completely, not even telling you. I wondered if that would be best for your safety, no matter how much you would suffer believing me dead. But then that bloody assassin knocked the crates on top of me when I collapsed and that quite clearly ended the matter."

Lou looked down. "I'm glad you didn't run away, Buddy. But I wish it hadn't taken those stupid crates to keep you here. I almost lost you for sure because of them suffocating you."

". . . I do recall wondering if I would actually stand a better chance if I did let you know I was alive," Ginger said. "And then I even wondered if I could bear hurting you by allowing you to think I was dead."

Lou smiled, sadly. That cold heart could still feel. Mike probably wouldn't be able to believe that, either.

"We'll make it, Ginger," he insisted. "And if for some reason we don't, we'll go down together, fighting."

"You wouldn't like that," Ginger pointed out. "You've always tried to encourage me not to use my guns."

"I know. But in that case, I'd make an exception." Lou's eyes narrowed. "I'd still like to repay them for what they did."

"Don't lose yourself."

Lou peered at him. "Something's still bothering you, Ginger. What is it?"

Ginger looked to him. "I wonder if I've been taking you for granted, as your brother more or less said."

"You figure I'll be here," Lou said. "That's not taking me for granted; that's trusting in our friendship." He leaned back, thinking. "Maybe you took me for granted sometimes in the past, up to when you shot at Mike. I'd put up with everything you did, until _that._ Then I was mad and you acted like you realized that maybe you'd done something that could end things right then and there. You started to change after that. Kind of."

"Perhaps." Ginger leaned back. "And what are we going to do about that bit of rubbish on the answering machine? If we could place the voice, we might at least know who is after us."

"Well, it sure didn't sound like anyone we know," Lou remarked.

"No, it didn't. But . . ." Ginger looked to him. "No one has moved onto our block recently. All the houses are filled. If someone is watching us from one of them, it has to be someone we know, unless they have a friend or relative staying there who's doing the spying. And Lou . . . who on this block is the most strongly opposed to us?"

Lou's eyes widened. "You're not thinking of the vacuum lady," he said in amazement.

"I haven't been," Ginger admitted. "She seems far too asinine. But in overlooking her, we may be making a mistake."

"How would we go about proving it?" Lou wondered.

"I don't know, unless we could get her to confess that she knows I'm alive. I suppose I could try calling her as I did Donny and see how she reacts."

"Maybe," Lou said slowly. "I don't know if it's worth trying or not. If she's not involved, she'd sure start gossiping fast."

"She would, but when our enemies have already informed us that they know I'm alive, does it matter?" Ginger reached for the phone in his pocket. "I'm going to try it."

Suddenly he froze, scowling.

"What is it?" Lou wondered.

"I just realized I'm still wearing your brother's jacket."

Lou sighed. ". . . Maybe you should give it back to him when he comes back upstairs," he said.

"And try to patch up our troubles?" Ginger added wryly.

"You could try, couldn't you?" Lou asked, somewhat pleadingly. "Just until the danger's over."

Ginger sighed, heavily. "Yes, I suppose I could try."

Lou smiled a bit. "It would mean a lot to me."

Ginger set the phone on the table. "I know."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Ginger cursed to himself as he limped down the basement stairs, gripping the banister. Mrs. Oreck hadn't been home when he had tried calling her, so he would have to attempt it again later. And meanwhile, he wasn't keen on waiting for Mike to come back upstairs in order to return the jacket. Mike might hide in his room for a long time. Ginger just wanted to get this meeting over with, so he was struggling down the stairs and silently ordering his body to cooperate.

For the most part he was succeeding fairly well. But then for some reason his left knee buckled on the third to last step and he slid the rest of the way down, still frantically clutching the banister. When he hit the bottom he knelt there for a moment, breathing heavily as he death-gripped the railing.

"What's that noise?" Mike exclaimed from down the hall. "Lou?"

He froze in place when he came into the large family room and saw that it was Ginger. But then, swallowing hard and trying to force himself to snap out of it, he took a cautious step forward. "Ginger?" he quavered. "Are you . . . hurt?" He clearly thought Ginger might be there to hurt _him._

Ginger grunted, fighting to pull himself to his feet. "I'm alright. And I didn't come down here to murder you." Painstakingly, he began to remove the red jacket. "I forgot to return this to you."

Mike blinked in stunned surprise. "Oh." He finally went over the rest of the way. "You . . . you came down here for that?"

"It was your brother's suggestion," Ginger said matter-of-factly. "I won't pretend it was mine." Finally easing his sore arms out of the sleeves, he held the article of clothing out to the younger man. "Thank you for the loan."

Mike took it, slowly, amazed by Ginger's words. "The loan was Lou's suggestion too," he said. He hesitated, wondering if Ginger was going to linger.

Ginger was debating over that very question. He certainly didn't know how to go about making any sort of amends. He was very proud and very private; only Lou knew anything of his heart.

"Lou hopes that we can somehow get along," Ginger said at last, "even if only temporarily. I suppose we've had an uneasy truce even since we were released from prison. You don't trust me and I don't particularly care for you."

He paused. "I would feel a great deal better about you if you hadn't betrayed not only me, but Lou. If you could be swayed that way by Donny Waugh, what guarantee do we have that you won't do it again?"

"None, I guess," Mike mumbled. "I'm really sorry about that, though. I just wasn't thinking straight."

"Most people don't betray their brothers, even if they're not 'thinking straight,'" Ginger remarked.

Emboldened, Mike said, "Well, and I never know if you might flip out on me and do something drastic, like when you shot at me and Donny. Lou said you weren't trying to kill us, but I don't know that he knows what was in your head."

"Would you believe me if I said it?" Ginger replied.

Mike thought about that. "It might help," he admitted.

Ginger nodded. "I was furious," he said. "You and Donny had double-crossed us and were getting away. You were right; I took drastic measures. I fired on you both because I was seeing red and I wanted you to stop. Perhaps I wanted to hit you and cause you pain. Yet at the same time, I didn't want to seriously harm or kill you, and not only because we needed to be told the location of the diamond. I didn't want to badly hurt anyone whom Lou cared about. That's partially why I was so upset when Lou thought you were dead."

"Lou told me you said you were sorry you'd done it," Mike prompted.

"I _was _sorry, for the pain I caused Lou by doing it," Ginger said. "I'm sorry again tonight, for the same reason."

Mike nodded. "I'm sorry for what I did that made him upset." He sighed. "And I know he really is worried that someone might be after me, even though he's right that we don't know it's happening. He wouldn't have been so insistent on me staying otherwise, since he knows you and I have problems. And I don't know that I feel good about staying, after what you said about me getting Lou in danger too."

"If Lou would feel better if you stay, then you should stay," Ginger said. "That's largely the reason why I stay. And there's always the possibility that Lou—or you, I suppose—could be attacked and beaten for information concerning my whereabouts if you or I left."

". . . Looking at it that way, it really would be safer if we stayed together," Mike said in surprised realization. "We could protect each other if we all got attacked here, too."

"Exactly."

Mike shifted position, something else on his mind. "There's you and Lou, too," he said. "It bothers me how, like I said, you seem to have some kind of hold over him. I just don't understand why he wants to be with you."

"Ah yes, I knew we would be getting around to that." Ginger looked at Mike, his tone dark and serious. "I can't make you believe it, but Lou means everything in the world to me. Perhaps at one time we were only partners, but it was still unusual for us to continue working together after that very first job. Normally I would have moved on, but after I met him, I didn't.

"We grew very close over time. I know you've noticed that Lou isn't afraid of me, unlike most everyone else. Lou knows me deeply and how to approach and handle me. He is the only one I've ever let in. Perhaps it seems that I have a 'hold' over him, as you put it, but in actuality it's simply that Lou not only knows me, but likes me and cares about me. He could leave if he wanted; I certainly am not enticing him to remain. But as to why he wants to, or why he likes me, _I_ don't even know the answer to that. I'm not entirely certain _he_ does."

Mike looked down, sobered. It was strange to hear Ginger talking like this.

"I have always been frank with you, haven't I?" Ginger prompted.

Mike started. "Yeah. Yeah, you have, Ginger."

"Then you shouldn't have any reason to believe that I would lie now."

That rang true. Mike looked up again, into Ginger's steady, ice-blue eyes. "No," he said. "I guess I don't."

"I'm sure I'm not wrong when I say that for each of us, the only good thing about the other is Lou," Ginger said. "Because Lou cares deeply about both of us, and because our current situations ask that we all stay together, I suggest that we try much harder to get along and not be afraid in your case or annoyed in mine." He hesitated, then held out his hand. "You have my oath that I will not harm you."

"And I won't betray Lou. Or you," Mike added in earnest. He grasped Ginger's hand.

It definitely felt like a burden being lifted from them both.

xxxx

The police sirens coming closer to Josephine's Restaurant and Grill were a welcome and surprising sound. The chattering patrons immediately ceased their talk, looking towards the windows with a mixture of positive and negative emotions.

The thug who had been monitoring Jim and Vern's food intake looked up with a start, his expression not unlike the proverbial deer in the headlights. "They're not coming here," he insisted. "No one could have called them."

Jim grinned in relieved triumph as several black-and-whites pulled up in front, their red-and-blue lights flashing on the glass. "Really? I would beg to differ. Sorry, but there's just not going to be any taking us out for a little after-dinner accident tonight."

Vern let out an immense breath. "We're saved!" he proclaimed in joy.

The officers burst into the restaurant in the next moment, their guns drawn. "Alright!" yelled one blond officer. "Everyone get your hands up."

No one protested, including the hitman. As the blond officer made his way to Jim and Vern's table he asked, "Are you the two intended victims?"

"I guess that's a pretty fair description," Jim said. "But who called you? We didn't see anybody leave the room."

"Apparently not all of the staff supports whatever's been going on around here," was the reply. "The call came in from a hysterical waitress. She said something about drugs and some muscle and two people who were going to be killed by said muscle."

Jim nodded. "That's about the size of it." He reached into his pocket. "They've been passing these unique salt packets out to certain customers. Sugar, too. Show him, Vern."

Vern dumped the sugar packets on the table.

"And there's drugs in all of those?" a brunet officer exclaimed in surprise as he came over.

"That's right," Jim nodded. "It's a pretty crazy racket. Ginger Townsend might have been killed because he found out about it."

"For the last time, I didn't do it!" the thug snapped as the handcuffs were placed on his wrists.

"Okay, so maybe you didn't," Jim retorted. "Is there anyone else here who might've done it?"

"I don't know," he scowled. "I don't think anyone was told anything about killing him."

"We'll find out soon enough," the blond officer said.

xxxx

It seemed like eons later when Jim trudged home. He was absolutely exhausted as he parked the car and staggered up the steps to his trailer, half-asleep on his feet.

Making his statement to the police had taken far too long. And he had had to endure questioning about his and Vern's involvement and the reason why he believed Ginger had known about the drug racket. And in the midst of everything, Stephen Kalifer had shown up, indignant and upset and bewildered.

The ringleader of the drug smuggling ring had insisted that he didn't know anything about Ginger or the exploded warehouse. His hired muscle backed him up. Now Jim was forced to admit to the idea that maybe they weren't lying. There could have been another motive for the attempted murder.

The only thing he was sure of anymore was that he was going to have some really weird dreams when he fell asleep.

The red light on the answering machine was flashing when he opened the door and wandered inside. After locking it behind him, he groaned to himself and shuffled over to the machine. He supposed he had better hear what was on it; there were three messages and at least one of them might have something to do with this twisted mess of a case.

"_Sonny boy!"_ The first voice was Rocky's. Jim smiled a bit as he sank into the chair by the desk. _"What are you up to tonight? I've been by several times and I haven't been able to catch you. I guess that warehouse case is really giving you the run-around."_ That was an understatement. _"Well, let me know when you're finished with it and we'll go fishing to celebrate."_

Jim propped himself up on a hand and elbow. He would much rather have spent the day fishing for fish instead of fishing for persons of interest and information.

The machine beeped and the second message came on. The heavy breathing woke Jim up a bit more. That was generally not a good sign on a recording.

"_Rockford, do yourself a favor and cut out of this case. We know Ginger is still alive. And we know Lou is protecting him. We're going to kill him and anyone else who stands in our way of getting to Ginger. That will include you, if you don't bug out."_

Jim stiffened, frowning. This was serious. Ginger and Lou could be attacked at any time, according to this. And just what the heck _was_ the obsession these people had with seeing Ginger dead? Jim just didn't feel like this was a revenge case, especially if there was more than one person involved—as they had already determined there must be. But that would mean that someone most likely thought Ginger knew too much about something. And what on Earth could _that_ be?! If Ginger knew something, he apparently didn't know he knew it.

Another beep. _"Rockford, something kind of weird is going on."_ It was Lou. _"We got a message from the bad guys tonight and they say they know Ginger's alive, so I guess it'll be okay if I say this on your machine. Ginger started thinking maybe Mrs. Oreck isn't as kooky as she seems. You know, the vacuum lady. We both started wondering if she could be part of this whole thing, since they also said we're constantly being watched and she's a good one to be doing it. So Ginger decided he'd try calling her and see how she'd react to him being alive. But he can't get her on the phone. Her car's over there and she hardly ever goes to bed this early. And she's just not answering her phone! He's tried three times now. Maybe it's nothing, but along with everything else it just seems strange."_

Jim frowned more. The thought of a nutty woman with a vacuum cleaner for a husband being involved in this mess was absolutely off-the-wall, to say nothing of her even possibly being the mastermind behind everything. But then again, was it any weirder than any other element of this case?

"You're right, Lou," he muttered as he stood. "It does seem strange."

He headed to the door. It was unlikely that he would be able to sleep now, at least not until he looked into this latest episode. Lou had sent the message only twenty minutes ago, so he was very likely still awake and the problem was more than likely not solved.

Jim yawned. This was going to be the first and hopefully the last time he ever called on Mrs. Harold Vacuum Cleaner.

xxxx

The Oreck home still looked the way Lou had described it in his message, right down to the lights out and the car. And next-door, where Jim parked, was still lit up. Apparently Ginger and Lou were continuing to wonder what to make of their neighbor's residence.

He knocked on the door. "Hey, it's Jim Rockford," he called.

Lou soon opened the door. "Did you get my message?" he asked.

"No, Lou, I just thought it'd be real fun to check in on you guys at two-thirty in the morning," Jim quipped. He stepped inside the house and Lou shut the door after him. "So what's the deal?" He glanced to Ginger, who was sitting by one arm of the couch and looked worn-out.

"We still don't know," Ginger grumbled. "Sergeant Brice went over and knocked, but didn't receive an answer."

"So what do you want?" Jim wondered. "For me to go over and try my hand at it?"

"We didn't necessarily want anything," Ginger retorted. "Lou was just informing you of the latest development. It's possible that if she is involved, she wants Lou or I to go over and be entrapped. She might not be there alone."

The sudden knock on the door snapped everyone to attention. "Or on the other hand, maybe she's tired of waiting and is coming over here," Jim remarked. Being the closest to the door, he peered through the peephole. ". . . There's a vacuum cleaner. It must be her."

Lou exhaled in exasperation. "Well, we'd better find out what she wants. Ginger, are you going to stick around?"

"I suppose there's no real point in my departure," Ginger replied.

Jim opened the door. "Good evening, Mrs. Oreck," he greeted. "Or would it be good night by now?"

She blinked. "Oh, excuse me. I don't know you." She frowned. "Are you moving in with Mr. Trevino?"

"No, of course not," Jim replied. "I'm just visiting. Jim Rockford." He held out his hand.

She took it. "Rockford . . . aren't you some kind of detective?"

"That's me," Jim said, grandly. "And actually, the reason why I'm here is because your neighbors were concerned about you."

"Concerned? About me?" She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Well, I guess because you weren't answering your phone or your door," Jim said. "Lou felt that at the time you were first being called, it would have been too early for you to be in bed."

"I was, though," she said. "I went to bed early because I couldn't sleep well last night." She frowned. "Why was he trying to contact me?"

Ginger's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Lou stepped forward. "Actually, I wasn't the one calling you," he said. "It was Ginger."

She started and looked to him. "That joke is in very poor taste," she declared. "I didn't expect it of you, Mr. Trevino!"

"It isn't a joke," Ginger said, struggling to push himself up from the couch. "And you are not Mrs. Oreck."

The woman's jaw dropped. Confused and concerned, Jim and Lou both looked to Ginger. "What are you talking about?" Jim demanded.

"She has been saying 'I' and 'me'," Ginger replied. "Mrs. Oreck always refers to her Hoover as well. She would say 'we' and 'us'."

Lou's eyes widened. "I didn't even catch that." He looked back to their visitor. "Well? What have you got to say to that?"

The woman looked trapped. Finally, tossing the vacuum aside, she pulled a gun. "Okay, so I didn't manage to fool you. You always were too observant for your own good, Ginger."

"And that's why you want to kill him," Lou proclaimed. "Were you hired by the people at Josephine's?"

"You can answer that, can't you?" Without warning she fired, slamming the door in the next instant. A strange fog began filling the living room.

"What _was_ that?!" Lou gasped, fumbling in desperation with the doorknob.

"Some sort of gas bomb," Ginger choked. He fell to his knees, seeking the source of the trouble.

Jim knelt down to try to help him, but it was already too late. Whatever the gas was, it was fast-acting. The two men slumped forward, clanking against each other as they went down.

Lou looked back, his eyes watering. "Ginger?"

The doorknob felt like it was covered in petroleum jelly. Lou could not manage to turn it and let in the fresh air. He crashed to the floor as well, his hand falling limply onto Ginger's arm.

Just before his senses clouded over, he wondered if Mike and Sergeant Brice and Officer Anderson would also be affected.

xxxx

Jim awakened first, to a very unpleasant and stomach-rocking motion. He blinked, trying to focus in the complete darkness. Still unable to see, he reached out in the nothingness and finally took hold of a strong, firm arm. "Lou?" he guessed. "Hey, Lou. Wake up!"

"Huh?" Lou stirred, slowly looking up at their surroundings. "What the . . . where _are _we?!"

"I have no idea," Jim frowned. "Is Ginger in here?"

He could hear Lou feeling around in the darkness. "Ginger?! Ginger, come on! Answer me!"

Jim's heart sank. "He's not here, is he."

"I can't find him. Just a minute." Lou felt across the floor and then the wall. As he struggled to stand up, he banged his head on the ceiling. "Ow!"

Stunned, Jim reached up above his head. "I don't believe this," he said in utter shock. "We must be inside some kind of crate!"

Lou went stiff. "You're kidding."

"Not only that, but we're probably suspended in the air with a crane." The floor rocked every time one of them moved. And everything felt like wood. When Jim knocked on it, there was a hollow sound. It made a sickening, horrible kind of sense.

"What the heck?!" Lou burst out. "What's the point of this?" He swore, helplessly. "And where's Ginger? Maybe they've already killed him!"

"I doubt it."

Lou started, looking in the direction of Jim's voice. "Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because they could have just as easily killed us before," Jim explained. "Don't you get it, Lou? They're torturing Ginger by having your life quite literally on the line! He's probably on the ground right now, staring up at this stupid crate."

Lou slumped down, feeling ill. "And they'll probably tell him he has to give himself up and let himself be killed to save me."

"Would he do that?" Jim wondered.

"He'd probably tell them to go to Hell and start blasting away with a gun. If he had a gun." Lou shook his head. "Without one . . . well . . . he's never been good in physical fights. I don't know what he'd do. But I do know that with my life at stake, he won't know how to refuse them."

Jim's stomach rolled. "Hey, did they take your phone?"

Lou blinked. "I don't know." He felt through his pockets and finally pulled it out. "It's here. Do you want me to try calling Ginger?"

"Yeah. If they let you keep your phone, he probably still has his." Jim leaned back, frowning. "See if you can find out where he is and exactly what _is_ going on."

Lou started to dial their backup phone, praying that Ginger still had it with him. "It's weird about the phone," he proclaimed. "I mean, what's to stop me from calling the police while I'm at it?"

"After you talk to Ginger, you'd better," Jim said. "And the only reason I can think of that they wouldn't care if the police got called is if they figure everything will be over by the time the police get here. Either that or . . ."

"We're being held by dirty cops," Lou groaned. "And there's a good chance they could weasel their way out of this when the good cops show up."

He brought the phone to his ear as it rang. The phone on the other end was snapped up after only one ring. "Hello?! Lou?!"

Lou wanted to relax with the knowledge that Ginger was alive, but he knew he couldn't yet. "Ginger, where are you?" he exclaimed. "Rockford thinks he and I are trapped up in some crate!"

"What?!" Ginger swore. "Of all the bloody insane . . ." He trailed off. "I'm in a warehouse, right by a window. I can see a crane holding a large crate in mid-air, right outside. There's a stack of other crates directly underneath it."

"So if we could kick our way out of this, we could get down on the stack?" Lou deduced.

"I suppose, if you're not stopped on the way down. Someone is poking a gun into my back. He claims that he has men all around the perimeter of the warehouse and the dock."

Lou gripped the phone tighter. "Hasn't he even said what they want?"

"They're absolutely mad. He says that he doesn't just want to kill me anymore; he wants me to suffer because I survived everything they already put me through."

"Are they connected with Josephine's?"

"I don't even know. But . . . wait a minute." There was a pause as a muffled and indistinct voice spoke in the background.

Suddenly Ginger's voice boomed out again, furious and in disbelief. "What the bloody devil are you on about?! You're mad! Utterly and completely raving _mad!_"

At the same moment, the crate rocked, violently. Lou gasped as he and Jim were thrown against the wall. "What's going on?" Lou cried.

"Well, somehow I don't think your friend caused that to happen just with the volume of his voice," Jim said sarcastically. "Although I wouldn't be surprised if Vern St. Cloud could make it happen sometime."

"Lou!" Ginger was back on the phone. "He just informed me that you and Rockford have two options. You may remain in the crate, waiting for rescue, aware that sooner or later the crane is simply going to drop you to a certain death. Or you may break out of it through one loosely nailed side and try to climb down the stack, while snipers fire upon you from all directions. You have a 'sporting chance' with the second option, but little to no chance with the first."

Lou swallowed hard. Both choices horrified him. But as far as he was concerned, there was only one real option. "Well, I'm not just going to sit here and wait for the crane to drop us," he declared. "We're going to try to get out."

". . . Oh, and he also tells me that the rope attaching the crate to the crate is fraying with every movement," Ginger continued. "The more you try to kick your way out, the more chance there is of the crate simply tearing free and plummeting anyway." The absolute fury and outrage in his voice were still apparent, even though now he was not yelling.

Lou cringed. "You're right, Ginger. These people are crazy."

Jim was weighing the odds in his mind. "How about this," he said at last. "We call the police. We wait maybe five, ten minutes. Then, if they're not here yet, we try to get out even with the added risk."

". . . He says you won't survive even if you bring the police," Ginger said angrily. "But he welcomes you to try."

"Well, that's never a good sign," Jim grumbled.

"I say we do it anyway," Lou said.

Jim nodded. "It's about our only chance."

Suddenly remembering something else, Lou said into the phone, "Hey, Ginger, what about Mike and Sergeant Brice and Officer Anderson? Did that creep tell you anything about them?"

"He claims they were affected by the gas within minutes and are most likely still back at the house, sleeping it off," Ginger said in irritation.

Lou sighed. "At least Mike might come out of this mess." He hesitated. "Well . . . I'd better go try to call the police. Ginger . . ." He wasn't sure what to say. This might very well be the last time they would speak to each other in this life. It wasn't the way he had pictured it at all.

"Do your best to stay alive," Ginger cut in, sharply. "I will do the same. That's all we can hope for. And if we fail . . ." He didn't seem to know how to say goodbye, either.

". . . Maybe, if there's anything after this life, I'll see you there," Lou finished, finally.

"Perhaps." Ginger sighed, heavily. "Alright. I'll disconnect now. Goodbye, Lou."

The call ended before Lou had a chance to reply. "Goodbye, Buddy," he whispered, sadly.

Jim regarded him with sympathy but also with worry and impatience. "Neither of you are dead yet," he said. "Call the police and maybe we'll still get out of this."

Lou nodded and began to dial. After a brief run-around from the desk Sergeant, Lou was transferred to Lieutenant Drumm, whom he told about the latest disaster.

Steve was stunned. "I'll send some black-and-whites ahead of me and come myself," he promised.

"Okay, but it'd better be quick," Lou warned. "This thing's already been rocking and fraying."

He hung up moments later without much hope.

Jim sighed. "He said there were no units in the area, right?"

"He didn't think anyone could get here sooner than fifteen or even twenty minutes," Lou said. "That's too long. We're going to have to try to get out without them here."

Jim nodded. "Well, we'll wait the five or ten minutes and then try it," he said.

Lou kept the phone in his hand to watch the time change on the lit screen. ". . . You get awfully close to a guy after knowing him for so long," he remarked, not even sure why he was saying this to Jim but feeling too upset to stay quiet.

"I'm guessing you got even closer in prison," Jim said.

"Yeah." Lou leaned back against the wall, staring into the nothingness ahead of him. "I mean . . . there's not much you can hide from each other in a space as small as a prison cell. If you don't like the guy you're with, you're pretty much sunk."

Jim half-smirked. He knew that experience firsthand.

"I was glad when the warden decided to put me and Ginger together," Lou went on. "I figured it might happen, since nobody else wanted to share a cell with him and they were getting awfully scared. He's not really scary when you get to know him, but nobody wanted to take the time and he didn't want to try to make friends with any of them."

He sighed. "We talked a lot, about our pasts, about why we were in there, about what we were going to do when we got out. And things were going okay when we got out, for the most part, until all of this happened. We still don't even know _why _it's happening!"

"Well, one way or the other, we'll probably know in a few minutes," Jim said.

Lou cringed. For better or worse, they likely soon would—in the afterlife if nowhere else.

xxxx

It was the pounding and yelling at the door that finally drew Mike out of his forcefully induced slumber. He struggled to open his eyes, pushing himself up from where he had collapsed on the stairs. "What's . . . who's there?" he mumbled, not sure if he was speaking loud enough to be heard.

"It's Vern St. Cloud!" came the responding yell. "What's going on in there?!"

Mike staggered up, placing a hand on the wall as he woozily stumbled into the living room and to the door. "I don't know," he said. "There was something weird in the air." He remembered worrying about Lou and trying to come up to find him, but not being able to make it.

Vern looked at him in concern as he swayed while opening the door. "Hey, you're in a bad way, Kid," he exclaimed. "And . . ." He sniffed the air. "It smells like some kind of knockout gas!"

Mike's eyes widened. "Then somebody must have been here and they must have taken Lou and Ginger," he gasped.

"What?!" Vern cried in disbelief. "You're still daffy from the gas. Ginger's dead!"

"No, he's not," Mike retorted. "It's a long story, Mr. St Cloud. I don't have time to explain. Like I said, they've both been taken!"

Vern tried to shake himself away from his shock and bewilderment. "And they must've taken Rockford too," he added. "His car is out front."

"Oh no." Mike held a hand to his head. "And I don't have any idea where to go to look for them!"

"I do."

Both men looked up with a start as Sergeant Brice limped into the room, dizzy, Officer Anderson right behind him.

Brice held up his phone. "Lieutenant Drumm just called me," he said. "He said Mr. Trevino just called him and said that he and Mr. Rockford and Mr. Townsend are all being held at the docks in an immediate life-or-death situation."

"Then what are we waiting for?!" Vern cried. "Let's get down there. I'll drive; none of you guys are up to it."

Mike had to admit he was right. "It might already be too late," he moaned. "We're nowhere near the docks!"

"Well, we're sure gonna give it our best try," Vern declared. "Here, I'll help you down the stairs."

In Mike's state, he was most certainly agreeable.

Vern stared at the blue-and-silver vacuum cleaner on the porch as he guided Mike towards the front steps. "Hey, why is your brother keeping his vacuum outside?!" he said in disbelief.

"Huh? Oh." Mike sighed, blinking at it. "That isn't his. It belongs to the woman next-door." He woke up more fully. "Lou and Ginger were wondering what was going on with her. Her house is still dark; maybe she's not alright, either."

"I'll investigate," Officer Anderson spoke up. "You guys go on ahead to the docks." He didn't like the idea of Vern and especially Mike going, but on the other hand, Vern was definitely right that neither Officer Anderson nor Sergeant Brice could drive right now.

Brice looked at him in concern. "You're not in any shape to do that."

"Well, maybe waiting for another squad car would be too late," Anderson replied. "I'm right here; I should look. But you should go with Mr. Trevino and Mr. St. Cloud. They need a police officer with them."

Brice hesitated, although he knew there was no time. Mike and Vern were continuing down the stairs, not intending to wait. "Okay," he said at last. "But be careful. I'll send for a backup unit right now, just in case."

"Okay." Officer Anderson tried to smile. "Good luck out there."

"We'll sure need it," Vern muttered from up ahead. "We don't even know what part of the docks we're supposed to go to!"

"Why are you out here anyway?" Mike wondered. As they reached Vern's car, Vern eased Mike into the passenger seat.

"Oh . . . I was looking for Rockford," Vern grumbled. "I couldn't sleep and I was thinking about the case. When he wasn't home, I thought maybe he'd be here."

"I'm glad you came," Mike said in all sincerity.

He just prayed that someone, anyone, would get there in time to save Lou—and Ginger and Jim too. He knew Lou would never be the same if Ginger was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes: The last segment is something I wrote about two years ago. It was my first attempt at writing for Vern and Jim, and aside from some slight dialogue changes due to my altering the gravity of the situation, everything they've said is the same as in the first draft.**

**Chapter Twelve**

It was agonizing waiting as the time ticked by. Ginger stared at the screen of the backup phone, watching for an eternity until yet another minute clicked past.

"What if Lou and Rockford manage to make it out of your obstacle course alive?" he demanded.

The gun prodded him in the back again and he stiffened, wanting with all of his heart to wrench it out of his enemy's hands. He would if three more weren't focused on him from the warehouse balcony.

"If they miraculously come through that hailstorm of bullets, Lou will have to watch _you_ die," was the smooth reply. "But don't worry; he'll follow you in death soon after."

Ginger snarled a curse at him. "I'd like to know who's trying to kill us and why."

"You don't even know the _why_, Ginger?" came another, female voice from the balcony. "For shame."

His eyes narrowed. "I recognized your voice when I stripped away your ruse as Mrs. Oreck," he admitted. "But I can't feature you as the mastermind behind all of this. Nor do I understand what you would have to gain by murdering me."

"Oh, well, Darling," came the purred reply. "I was hired to get rid of you because of what you saw at Josephine's. I'm sure you realized that much of it. But I took the job largely for sweet revenge's sake. I remember how often you outwitted me when you and Lou operated as jewel thieves. You acquired more than one incredible prize that I desired."

"This impersonation of yours is quite good as well," Ginger responded instantly. "But you are not that woman. I happen to know that she is in a coma and has been for nearly two years." He started to turn, but the machine gun at his back prevented it.

"You're right, of course, Love." Now the voice had changed again. It was darker and the aristocratic accent wasn't as strong.

"Now you sound like her sister. But I can't imagine Florence would be dabbling in hiring out as a mercenary assassin," Ginger remarked. "My old rival Vivalene would, but as we have already established, it isn't possible for you to be her. And I am losing my patience."

"You're right that Florence wouldn't." Another gun clicked. "Not unless _she_ was the mastermind behind it all and not a mere hired gun. You see, Love, the people at Josephine's worked for F.O.W.L."

"Then your organization has expanded beyond world larceny," Ginger said in disgust.

"If you genuinely believed that was all we engaged in, you have been extremely naïve," Florence said. "We have our fingers in every kind of illegal pie. It would be foolish to ignore something as booming as the drug business."

Now Ginger did turn, in spite of the gun, and wrenched the barrel to the side with one hand. "You make me ill," he spat, holding onto the barrel as his knuckles turned white. "Participating in that filthy habit! And now setting Lou and I up to be killed in this bloody sadistic manner . . . !"

"I'm sure you know it's nothing personal," Florence said boredly. "Vivalene had a grudge against you, but not I. It's just that you realized something wasn't right at Josephine's. And even if it didn't quite dawn on you at the time, I knew it would before too long. After all, you are a very intelligent man . . . when you're not allowing your temper to rule over you." She sneered. "So I and my men endeavored to solve the problem."

"If you're not attempting to take revenge, then what's the point of any of this?" Ginger snapped. "I've been told that Josephine's has been raided. I am no longer the only one who knows of your nauseating operation."

"I don't like to fail," Florence said. "It looks bad on my record."

"And you already have several recent failures on your record, don't you, _Love?_" Ginger retorted, the last word dripping with sarcasm. Florence was not British and was mocking him every time she used the term—which he himself had never even been in the habit of using.

"Unfortunately, yes. I failed to keep hold of the world when I claimed it last year. I also failed to ensure F.O.W.L.'s success in readying a very intriguing find on Mt. San Antonio for F.O.W.L.'s future usage. My superiors are . . . not known for their patience, mercy, or understanding. I've been . . . demoted, shall we say."

"So to fail in something as relatively minor as eliminating me could spell the end of your precious career with F.O.W.L.," Ginger determined.

"In a word, yes. Therefore, we will not fail tonight. I want you dead to save my job and possibly my life. And my men are so angry that you're still alive that they want to take the revenge. I told them they could, as long as it's over before the police arrive."

"Of course," Ginger growled, still sarcastic. "And what about Tim Carlton and his gang? I heard that they were supposed to do the job and make Mike look like the culprit."

"Those punks?" Florence sounded bored. "They robbed the other warehouse with a couple of employees from both warehouses and had Mike helping them with that, but they drew the line at murder. Nicolai was stupid enough to think they would accept. Instead, they turned down the offer he set before them at Josephine's."

"So it was just a coincidence that Mike was carrying something ticking into the warehouse that exploded," Ginger prompted.

"Yes. Who knows; maybe it really was an alarm clock collection." Florence shrugged. "Anyway, there shouldn't be any trouble collecting the insurance on everything that blew up. If you were going to get out of this alive, you could pass that word along to Mr. St. Cloud for him to give to his employers. But unfortunately, you won't be able to tell him a thing. As I said, this has to be finished before the police arrive. And that means we have to expedite matters." She nodded to one of the other gunmen on the balcony, who aimed out the window at the swinging crate.

Ginger let out a yell of rage, pulling the machine gun from the astonished and alarmed thug's hands. Immediately he aimed at the balcony, firing on the man before he could shoot the crate or its rope. When the other two turned their weapons towards him, he opened fire on them as well.

Florence dove out of sight, not wanting to risk being caught by any of the flying bullets. "There goes your temper again, Darling," she called with a sneer. "Let's see how long you and the others can last."

Ginger screamed a curse after her and turned, running out of the warehouse. The one living thug didn't even try to stop him.

xxxx

In the crate, both Lou and Jim could hear the sudden gunfire. "Oh, now that's just what we needed to brighten up our night," Jim frowned in concern.

Lou shoved the phone in his pocket. "Maybe they've shot Ginger!" he cried. "It's been ten minutes, Rockford, and the police aren't here. Let's get out of here!" He and Jim had already discovered the loose side of the crate. He hit it now, pulling the nails farther out of place. The night air rushed in over them.

"Watch it!" Jim scolded, feeling the crate sway violently to the right. He pushed at the slab of wood with his feet, trying to go slowly and carefully enough to avoid too much movement.

Now there was more gunfire down below. Lou peered through the widening opening. "It's Ginger!" he exclaimed in a mixture of relief and worry. "He's got a machine gun. He's using it to distract and shoot the snipers who were waiting for us around the crates!"

". . . Well, I'm grateful for that, even though the thought of Ginger with a machine gun sends chills up and down my spine," Jim remarked. He pushed the side the rest of the way off and it went soaring and spinning towards the ground. "Come on, then. We'll try to get down from here while they're _distracted._"

As cautiously as they could while hanging out of a swinging and groaning crate, Lou and Jim eased themselves onto the top stationary crate on the stack. Then, turning, they tried to make their way down the crates that were positioned not unlike stairs.

Bullets were flying in all directions. Stumbling over a dead gunman on a crate, Lou paused to grab his gun. "We might need this," he said by way of explanation.

"You don't have to tell me," Jim retorted. "I'll be sure to square it with the police if they come and find you and Ginger in possession of all this firepower."

Ginger had concealed himself behind another stack of crates to continue his war against their enemies. He didn't see the sniper climbing onto a third stack of crates, intending to shoot him from above.

Lou did, however. He stopped where he was and turned, opening fire on the assassin.

Hearing the sound of the new gun, Ginger looked over with a start. But he wasn't quick enough to prevent a second arriving sniper from firing on Lou.

The pain was sudden, searing. Lou gasped and cried out, the gun falling from his hands and clattering on the crates as he tumbled forward to the ground, his hands over the left side of his head.

Jim lunged to grab for him, but he wasn't quick enough. "Lou!" He knelt on the crate, swearing under his breath and gritting his teeth. Lou was lying on his side on the dock, not moving. Blood was trickling over his closed left eye.

Ginger stared at the body for what seemed a long moment. His world had just exploded in his face while he had stood and watched, unable to do anything about it. With heartbroken fire in his eyes, he turned and released his fury on the new sniper.

Jim grabbed up the gun Lou had dropped. There were still other enemy agents too, and now some of them were turning their attention to him. With no other choice, he fired in desperation as he fought to escape the madness.

Neither was aware that Vern had driven up only minutes before, just in time to witness Lou being shot. Mike turned several shades of pale, clutching the armrest. "Lou!" he screamed. "They got him and I wasn't able to stop it!" He flung open the door, grabbing Vern's handgun at the same moment.

"Hey!" Vern yelled. "Get back here! You can't go running out into that! What the heck?!" He scrambled out of the car as well, followed by Sergeant Brice. Somewhere in the distance police sirens were wailing, but the machine gun fire was all but drowning them out.

As Mike approached the scene, most of the snipers had already fallen. There was only one left that he could see. Mike took aim, bringing him down just as his sniper's rifle was brought to point at Ginger's head.

Ginger looked up with a start and Mike gasped at the sight. Last night Ginger had been badly, physically hurt and half-dead. Tonight he was badly, emotionally hurt and more alive and outraged than Mike had even seen him on the night of the double-cross. But at the realization that the war was over, the fire swiftly died from his eyes. It seemed to Mike that the light in general had died, leaving only a dull acceptance and pain over what had happened to Lou.

The empty gun dropped from his hands. He said nothing, looking Mike up and down, and then slowly rose from his hiding spot. The danger and the adrenaline gone, he was back to being a wounded man physically as well as emotionally. He limped as he walked, his shoulders hunched and his body slightly trembling.

His legs gave out as he reached Lou's lifeless form. He crashed to his knees, staring at the cruel blood. "Lou. . . ." His was a heartbroken, devastated tone of voice. He could not bear to accept that Lou was gone, yet the proof was lying right in front of him. Lou had been alive and well only moments ago, talking to Ginger on the phone and then trying to save him from the sniper, but now he was so still, so silent.

Even if Lou was possibly still alive, a bullet to the head was always serious. Something vital would have been struck. Something would not work properly anymore. Lou might not be able to talk, or see, or hear, or move . . . or even know Ginger.

Ginger drew a deep breath. He had to examine Lou better and see exactly what had happened, no matter how horrible and painful it would be.

Lou's face was wreathed in shadows, but the pain he had felt was still apparent in what Ginger could see of his expression. Ginger hated the thought of turning Lou to face him better . . . seeing whatever damage the bullet might have done to him. . . .

"Wait a minute," he breathed. The wound looked like the bullet had torn the skin as it flew past, not that it had remained and buried in Lou's skull or brain.

"Lou?!" he cried. He barely noticed Mike running over and dropping down too, or Jim approaching from behind. He was entirely focused on turning Lou onto his back.

The harsh bump on the other side of his head was instantly visible. But so was Lou's steady breathing.

"He's not dead," Ginger whispered in disbelief. "Lou!" He grabbed Lou's shoulder. "Lou, wake up!"

Lou groaned and stirred, his eyes weakly opening. "Ginger?" He reached up, laying his hand on Ginger's arm. "Hey. What happened?"

"What happened?!" Ginger choked. "You bloody well almost _died!_ That's what happened! I thought you were _dead!_"

Lou's eyes flickered. "Oh no. Ginger, I . . . I'm sorry." Through the fog over his dazed mind, he remembered that Ginger had been there and had likely seen everything. The realization sickened him. "Ginger, what did you do?"

"Exactly what I told you _not_ to do if the situation were reversed," Ginger growled. He fumbled in his pocket, taking out a fresh handkerchief and dabbing at the blood around Lou's left eye.

Lou's eyes flickered with fear and worry for Ginger's future. "You mean you . . . gunned them all down?"

"Yes," Ginger said bitterly. "Or at least, a great many of them."

"He didn't have any choice, Lou," Mike spoke up. "They were all still firing. I was here; I saw it. It was a war that _they_ started."

Both Ginger and Lou looked to Mike with a start. "Mike . . . you . . . you're actually defending Ginger?" Lou mumbled in disbelief.

Mike looked down. "Yeah." He swallowed hard. "He did just what I wanted to do when I saw you fall. Oh Lou, I . . . I thought you were dead too."

Lou weakly reached for Mike with his other hand. "I'm sorry," he mumbled again.

"Perhaps I had to do it, but I was behaving like a madman," Ginger muttered. "All of those bloody anger management courses in prison didn't help one bit. I didn't think about that. I didn't think about anything, only that they had killed you to get back at me. And I lost my senses." He inspected the wound and then resumed holding the cloth over it.

"I would've done the same thing," Lou said quietly.

"You've never become that monster yet," Ginger said. "I already am, have been for years. I don't want that to happen to you."

"You're not a monster, Ginger." Lou's voice was firm and without doubt. "You're just human."

Mike kept silent, remembering when Lou had insisted the same thing while talking to him. He had never thought he would think it himself, but maybe, just maybe, he had been seeing a bit of that humanity tonight—both when Ginger had struggled downstairs to make amends with him and when his temper had snapped from thinking Lou had been brutally killed. Even when he had screamed at Mike earlier in the evening, Mike supposed that had been another sign of a very human soul.

And, for the first time, Mike realized he was sure that Ginger really did love Lou. Ginger was not trying to take advantage of or manipulate his friend. Just as Ginger had said, Lou meant the world to him.

Ginger finally nodded. "Alright, I'm human." He didn't push the issue; he was just amazed that Lou saw it that way. "And Mike, incidentally, did far more than defend me just now. Several minutes ago he saved my life, as you also did, Lou."

Lou looked to Mike in surprise. "You did?"

Mike nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. "Yeah. Well, I was coming over from the car, and Ginger was shooting up all those snipers, and he didn't know that one was trying to get at him from behind. So I got that one. I couldn't let anything happen to him, Lou, even if we hadn't tried to make that new truce."

"But at that point, you thought I was dead," Lou said.

"I knew you'd want him to live," Mike said. "And I guess I just couldn't see myself standing by and watching that guy take a shot at Ginger, either."

Lou smiled a bit. "Of course you wouldn't." He looked to Ginger. "And Ginger sure saved me and Rockford, the way he was going at those snipers. There's no way we would've made it through that mess if he hadn't been there. They would have shot us full of holes right out of the box!"

Ginger nodded. "I'm just relieved it all turned out as well as it has. It could have been more than disastrous several times."

Jim, who had been standing by and letting them talk, certainly had to agree.

Sergeant Brice and Vern hurried up then, each with a sullen, handcuffed man in tow. "How badly is Mr. Trevino hurt?" Brice asked, urgently. All of them looked roughed up; apparently there had been quite a fight.

"He'll live," Jim said. "The bullet just grazed him. He was knocked out when he hit the dock."

Lou winced. "Oh brother, did it ever hurt, too." He started to attempt sitting up and then cringed, slumping against Ginger. Still weakened himself, Ginger wavered but tried to hold onto him.

Mike hastened to assist. "It looks like I'll need to stay on a while longer," he said. "Now both of you need help!"

Lou tried to ease himself away from Ginger, realizing he was putting too much pressure on his friend. "I'll be okay," he insisted. "I just need some rest."

"And an examination to make sure you don't have a concussion," Ginger frowned.

"I'll call an ambulance," Sergeant Brice offered.

Ginger looked up. "Sergeant, the mastermind behind all of this is F.O.W.L.," he announced. "Their representative, Florence, is most likely already long gone."

Brice stiffened. "I'll put out an APB for her right away," he vowed.

"Blast, I didn't have a chance to ask her what she did with Mrs. Oreck," Ginger muttered.

"Officer Anderson went looking for her," Brice said. "I'll check in with him, too."

"If you want to catch Florence, she's not gone yet," one of the captured men grumbled.

Everyone immediately turned to look at him. "What are you talking about?" Jim demanded. "Where is she then?"

"Still making her way to her submarine," the man replied. "It's way down there and she was on foot. She didn't want the motor of a car to be heard by the cops."

Still gripping the machine gun, Jim turned to run to Vern's car. "Okay then," he said. "I'm going after her. Ginger, you and Mike had better stay with Lou. Sergeant, are you coming?"

Before Brice could respond, Vern was chasing after him. "_I'm_ coming, Rockford!" he snapped. "It's _my_ car!"

"Fine, fine, whatever." Jim practically leaped into the passenger seat. "Let's go!"

Brice frowned, watching them. "I don't like to leave all of you here before the other police or the ambulance comes," he said. "I think we've caught the only living agents she had with her, but I could be wrong." He looked toward the private eyes. Vern was already speeding off. "And I don't like leaving them to chase after the big cheese, either."

But at least Jim and Vern were better off physically than Ginger and Lou were right now. Brice really felt that he should stay there, with them. The police cars were almost there; he could catch a ride down the wharf in one of them when they arrived.

"Do what you want, Sergeant," Ginger said. "We'll be alright."

Brice nodded. He would wait.

Anyway, Vern hadn't waited. Right now, Brice didn't have much choice.

xxxx

Florence had already gotten a headstart, so even though she was on foot she managed to make it to the submarine just as Vern screeched to a halt. She paused, turning at the sudden sound of tires.

Jim was already rushing out of the car. A barb at Vern's speeding had been on his tongue, but now that he saw they were just in time made him abandon the idea. "Okay, lady, the game's over," he said, pointing the machine gun at her. "You're coming back with us; we're making a citizen's arrest."

Florence smirked, placing one hand on her hip. "Oh, I see. Well, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, Loves, but I don't have time for that sort of detour."

"You should've thought of that before you tried to liquidate Ginger and Lou," Jim retorted. "And _me._ I don't take kindly to being stuck in a flying crate with a very high chance of getting my brains scrambled. I take enough risks in my job as it is. I don't need people like you adding more."

Florence shrugged. "That's too bad. But of course, I don't blame you. And while I hate to rely on any of my sister's tricks, I think this one will do nicely for the situation." Without warning she threw something onto the pier.

"Another gas bomb?!" Vern cried in horror as something immediately began to seep out of it.

Jim coughed. "No," he choked. "This time it's just smoke."

He ran ahead into the growing fog, kicking the smoke bomb into the water as he grabbed for Florence. "Come back here!"

He managed to take hold of her arm just as she was preparing to leap off of the pier and into the open and waiting submarine. "Let go of me!" she snarled.

Suddenly he felt a gun being jabbed into his ribs. He promptly brought up the machine gun with his other hand. "Don't forget, I'm still packing this," he snapped.

Vern ran up to her from behind, getting his arms around her waist. "I've got her, Rockford!" he yelled as she kicked and struggled. He wrenched the gun out of her hand, placing it in his own, empty holster.

"Great," Jim said, abandoning the machine gun and grabbing for Vern's tie. "Now we'll just tie her up with this."

"Why my tie?!" Vern cried. "Don't you have anything of your own to use?!"

"Well, you see, Vern . . ."

A bullet bouncing off of a crate next to Jim interrupted his wisecrack. He flinched. "I knew it was too strange to think that you'd be traveling alone," he frowned at Florence, who smirked. He grabbed up the machine gun again. "Call off your bodyguard. Now!"

Florence shrugged. "Alright, hold your fire," she instructed.

"Tell him to come down here and take his punishment like a good little F.O.W.L. agent," Jim insisted.

Instead Florence suddenly kicked out, striking Jim in the shin. He gasped, falling back. And Vern, who was still holding onto her, stared at something that made him let go. "Hey! Rockford, look out!"

The sound of the gun firing rang through the night at the same moment Vern tackled Jim to the ground. Jim gasped in surprise. When the other P.I. slumped over him with a moan of pain, a disbelieving chill went down his spine. Had Vern St. Cloud actually not only saved his life, but also taken a bullet for him?

"Vern!" he exclaimed, gripping the other man's thick shoulder.

Vern trembled. "This is it," he said. "Almost thirty years in this crummy dog-eat-dog business, and I've been taken out because of something like this." He wheezed, desperate for oxygen.

Jim tried to slide out from under Vern's girth. "Vern, stop talking like an idiot," he said. "I'll call an ambulance, we'll get you to a hospital, and they'll patch you up good as new. Hey, wait a minute." Now he could see a small dart sticking out of Vern's back. He reached for it, pulling it out of Vern's flesh. Vern flinched in pain. "Vern, it's a dart," Jim exclaimed. "You haven't been shot with a bullet."

"No, no, this is still the end," Vern said. "I know it." He gripped the pier. "Everything's getting dark. I can't breathe. I'm dying! Don't you think I'd know if I'm dying?!"

"It's probably laced with some kind of knockout drug," Jim retorted, hoping to keep Vern calm.

"That's crazy! I'm dying here and you're talking about _knockout drugs!_"

"Okay, you're dying," Jim gave in, not knowing how to reason with the hysterical man. Anyway, he knew, it was more likely that it was poison.

_I should have let Dad get me a cellphone, like he's always talking about,_ he muttered helplessly to himself. _I can't even call an ambulance._ There was a phone in his car, also courtesy of Rocky, but that certainly wouldn't do them any good right now.

"Vern, do you have a cellphone?" Jim demanded.

"Huh? Yeah, sure," Vern frowned. "But you won't have any luck there; the battery's run down. I didn't get a chance to charge it tonight."

"Oh, well, that's just great," Jim exploded in worried frustration.

"I know!" Vern yelled. "Everything's going wrong!"

"Vern, why did you do it?" Jim exclaimed. "Jumping in like that and grabbing me?"

"I don't know!" Vern shot back. "I didn't mean to get myself gutted. I thought I could get both of us out of the line of fire."

"But you knew you were taking a risk."

"Well . . . maybe I was just trying to even the score," Vern mumbled. "I mean, like you said, you _did _help me get my license back those few years ago. . . ."

Jim looked at him. "You haven't shown much, if any, gratitude since then," he reminded. "You said we'd be competing with each other. And you made competing into an art! You've been closer to an enemy than anything else."

Vern flinched again as the tiny wound stung. "I'm sorry, okay?" he said, looking up with pain-filled, glassy eyes. "I . . . it's been rough, these last few years. And . . . I'll come clean, I . . . ow, ow, _OW! _This feels like a shot gone wrong at the doctor's office."

Jim sighed.

Vern swore. "I've been jealous of you," he confessed, looking up at his fellow P.I. "I've been in this business a lot longer than you and I've been floundering. I'm lucky to get one or two cases in a month! Two months! And here you are, always managing to find something to take on. Well, I'm not gonna have to worry about that anymore."

"Will you stop saying you're dying already?!" Jim burst out. "You're going to drift off to dreamland and in a few hours you'll wake up and be fine." He said that, but he was still afraid it was far worse.

"I'll have crossed over by then!" Vern retorted. He grabbed Jim's wrist in desperation. "Call my brother Harry. Let him know what happened. Not that he'll care. He hasn't respected me for years, and after what happened with my nephew things have just gotten worse. Look what went down with him—he _killed_ somebody! On purpose, too. Now he's in the clink and my brother blames me for it!" His grip weakened. Suddenly he looked very dizzy.

"Darn it, Vern, quit talking!" Jim snapped. "You're making it worse."

"This really is the end," Vern mumbled. "I'm going. Goodbye, Rockford. I'm sorry." His eyes rolled back into his head and his body went slack.

"He lasted longer than I thought he would," Jim muttered, holding a hand in front of Vern's nose to make certain he was still breathing.

Vern was, indeed, still alive for now. And Jim prayed he would continue to be. His pulse was racing, but that could be from Vern's hysteria rather than poison. It was gradually slowing back down to what seemed normal.

Jim shook his head. It would be bizarre if Florence's goon actually _had_ used a knockout drug on that dart. Maybe that would be her sick sense of humor, getting everyone thinking it was another fatal assault when it wouldn't be.

He sighed. Of course, Florence had got away by now. But he couldn't be too mad at Vern for that; her sniper really had intended on firing, and had done so. It had not just been a bluff to get Vern to let her go. And even if it was just a knockout dart, Vern certainly hadn't thought so. He honestly thought he had been sacrificing his life.

"It's like my mother always said—people can surprise you," he remarked, hoping it wouldn't take too long for help to arrive. Sergeant Brice should be coming with one of the new squad cars in the next few minutes.

A small, rectangular piece of plastic caught his eye from the moon's reflection on the pier, and he reached over to pick it up.

"An address for a paint supply store," he mused to himself, seeing the business card within the protective plastic covering.

Had Florence dropped it? If so, maybe this misadventure would not end with her escape after all.


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Lou sighed, leaning back in the cab and closing his eyes. Next to him, Ginger watched, anxiously hoping that he truly was doing as well as the doctor had said. Although the physician had wanted to keep Lou for observation, he had not found evidence of a concussion and had finally agreed to let Ginger take him home, as long as someone would be able to watch over him through the night. Ginger and Mike intended to take shifts doing just that.

"How are you feeling?" Ginger queried. They were parked in front of the police station following their visit to the hospital. By now it was nearing morning and they were both exhausted. And while Mike was inside the station for a few minutes on Lieutenant Drumm's request, the cabbie had stepped away to grab something to eat.

"Huh? Oh. I'm okay, Ginger. Really." Lou smiled at his friend. "The stuff the doctor gave me took away a lot of the pain."

"I hope so." Ginger looked away, staring into the night.

Lou watched him. "What's wrong, Buddy?"

Ginger grunted. ". . . I still can't understand how you can dismiss what I did at the warehouse so easily. Any ordinary person would be highly disturbed by or even terrified of me after tonight. And in the past, even when I shot your brother, you forgave me."

"Maybe everybody's a little crazy," Lou mused. "But when you shot Mike, you said you were sorry, and I knew those words would never come easy to you. For you to say them, you meant them. So I forgave you and trusted you again.

"And tonight . . . Mike's right, Ginger. It was a _war._" Lou sat up straighter, laying his hand on Ginger's arm. Ginger looked back, into his earnest eyes and face. "You were fighting to protect me. When you thought they'd killed me anyway, it was too much for you to take."

"And if it hadn't been a war, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing to them."

Lou shook his head. "You don't know how much I wanted to go do what you did when I thought you'd been killed last night. If I'd found them, I can't say I wouldn't have done it."

"_Wanting _and _doing_ are two separate things," Ginger pointed out. "You might have thought you had the desire, but if it came right down to the wire, I don't know that you could have gone through with it. For me, I didn't even stop to think; I merely acted on my feelings."

"So did I, earlier tonight," Lou said quietly, "when I screamed at you and Mike. Some time or another, everyone does it."

"But not everyone does it by going ballistic with a machine gun." Ginger sighed, tiredly. "I don't know that I will ever be any different than I am now. I tried to change myself in prison, but I see now that I failed. Whenever I've lost control, it's when something is going amiss concerning something that means a great deal to me. In the past, among other things, it was the Borland Diamond. Tonight, it was you."

Lou considered that. "You know, if you're going to flip out, I'd rather have you do it because of me than some rock," he remarked. "At least it means your priorities are better."

Ginger stared at him. "You are a very odd person."

Lou smirked, wryly. "I've been told that. Like I said, maybe everyone's a little crazy. But I trust you, Ginger, and I still want to be with you. And if you're still wondering why . . ." He shook his head. "I don't even know myself. I could say a loyal friend is hard to find, but I liked being around you before we ever got that close."

Ginger smirked too. "Then I suppose it's just one of life's little mysteries."

Lou chuckled. "Yeah."

He paused. "Anyway, Ginger, at least you know you have a problem. That means there's still hope that you can change. If you had fought all those people and weren't even worried that you'd flipped out, _that's _when _I'd_ really be worried."

". . . That's good to know."

"But I'll be here for you no matter what happens, whether you can change or not."

"I know."

Ginger seemed more at peace now. Lou settled back against the seat, hopeful that Ginger was assured and could relax.

Ginger looked towards the police station. ". . . Your brother is taking entirely too long," he scowled. "And so is that driver."

"What's Mike doing, anyway?" Lou mumbled.

"I believe he's gathering a few last bits of information from Lieutenant Drumm," Ginger said. "The F.O.W.L. agents now under arrest have admitted that one of their number dressed up as a police officer and infiltrated the initial investigation. He's the one who pushed the crates on top of me."

Lou looked over at him. "So there was no dirty cop?"

"Apparently not."

"And Jackie Delano had no involvement whatsoever," Jim announced, suddenly appearing at the cab window. "Neither did Donny. He _was_ involved with the robbery, but according to him, he didn't know what was going on any better than Mike did."

"Well, that's all good to know," Lou proclaimed in relief. "How's that St. Cloud guy?" They hadn't had the chance to speak with Jim since arriving at the hospital.

Jim shook his head. "Fine, just fine. It really was just a knockout dart. Of course, Vern's complaining like it was the biggest hypodermic needle known to man. And there'll be no living with him now that he took that dart while protecting me."

"I don't doubt it," Ginger said.

"Hey, Rockford, thanks," Lou said. "For all your help with the investigation."

Jim shrugged. "I was just doing my job for the insurance company. Speaking of which, I've just spent over an hour in the presence of Stephen Kalifer. He's been giving me an earful for not telling him Ginger didn't die in the blast. And he might decide he wants to talk to you boys, too."

Lou was not pleased. "Oh great."

"Who knows, maybe he'll actually apologize for the things he said to you," Jim shrugged. "He actually is pretty good about owning up to being wrong. Once he knows he is, of course."

"Well, that's something, then," Lou acknowledged, wondering if it was safe to relax.

"And now that we know the dreaded Flo was at work again, the Feds are coming in on this case." Jim made a face, knowing he might meet some people he knew whom he would just as soon avoid.

"It's unlikely she'll be caught," Ginger said. "If anything happens to her, it will probably be F.O.W.L.'s work."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, they know. But you know them—they'll want to try anyway.

"Lieutenant Drumm's already contacted that paint supply store. Apparently someone bought some waterproof paint that was probably used on the submarine. The owner doesn't know any more than that, and Drumm thinks he's on the level, but the place will probably still be checked out by the Feds."

"You don't think she might try to go after Ginger again, do you?" Lou worried.

"Since what happened at Josephine's is all over the news by now, and they know you've both had ample time to tell more stuff to the police, probably not," Jim replied. "Flo's usually pretty smart, so I'm sure she knows that going after Ginger again at this point would just be stupid. Drumm will keep an eye on you for a while anyway, though, just in case."

Lou relaxed. "Good."

"According to the captured F.O.W.L. agents, they were just starting to get into the narcotics business," Jim went on. "Josephine's was their first big try. Who knows, Ginger, you might've made them rethink that 'going into every illegal pie' bit."

Ginger looked pleased, but did not want to mistakenly believe such a feat was absolutely true. "I suppose we'll see.

"Is the case really solved, then, except for Florence's escape?"

"As far as I know," Jim said. "And since catching her is unlikely to happen, and the Federal boys are taking over for that part of it, we should all be able to kiss this case goodbye. At least until we all get to court."

"We'd better be able to," Lou said fervently.

Jim nodded. "Anyway, I'm glad you two are alright." He pushed away from the cab. "Stay out of trouble now."

"We'll do our best," Lou vowed.

Ginger remained silent, watching as Jim headed off.

"Do you know anything about Mrs. Oreck yet?" Lou wondered.

Ginger grunted. "Officer Anderson found her tied up in a closet. Of course, she was more worried about her Hoover than anything else. She got it off our porch and has been cleaning it for the past two hours."

"I don't get how Florence had our house under surveillance," Lou frowned.

"Her men posed as handymen and repairmen throughout the day and she took over as Mrs. Oreck that night," Ginger replied.

"Huh. What a racket," Lou proclaimed.

He closed his eyes again, resting against the seat. Ginger glanced towards the door, again impatient for Mike to appear.

"Oh . . . Ginger?"

"What."

"Maybe it's just the monster headache talking, but . . . well, I've always kind of wondered. You didn't want to tell Mike, but maybe you'll tell me. How _did_ you get the nickname 'Ginger'?"

Silence. "It's not a nickname."

Lou's eyes opened. "Your name really _is . . . ?!_"

"My parents thought I was going to be a girl," Ginger said flatly. "When I wasn't, they decided that since so many names were becoming unisex, and since there were several famous men with the nickname 'Ginger', they would name me 'Ginger' anyway."

Lou shook his head, not sure whether to laugh or be weirded out. "That's . . . well, I never would have thought of that explanation."

Ginger gave him a withering look. "And you had better keep it to yourself. If I hear about it getting out to _anyone . . ._"

"You know I won't talk, Ginger," Lou interrupted.

Ginger's expression softened. "Yes. I know."

Both of them stared when, moments later, Mike at last emerged from the police station in the company of Mrs. Oreck and Harold.

"What on Earth," Ginger commented.

Mike shrugged, helplessly. "Mrs. Oreck was in there making a statement," he said, climbing into the cab on Lou's other side. "Lieutenant Drumm only kept me five minutes or so. The rest of the time, I've been talking to Mrs. Oreck and . . . uh . . . you know." He indicated Harold.

Ginger rolled his eyes.

Mrs. Oreck leaned down, peering in the window. "Well, it's certainly a surprise to see you alive, Mr. Townsend," she greeted. "We just wanted to thank you for realizing that horrible woman wasn't me! Who knows what would have happened to Harold if you hadn't discovered the truth!"

"It's hard to say," Ginger said, stiffly.

"We're on our way home now," Mrs. Oreck went on. "I guess we'll see you there!" She straightened, heading towards the parking lot with Harold rolling along beside her.

Mike gawked after them. "I wonder if she'll be nicer to you two because of this," he said.

"I guess it's possible," Lou admitted. "But I'm not going to hope for too much."

"It wouldn't take a great deal to set her off again," Ginger added.

"Hey, are we going yet or what?" the driver suddenly asked as he appeared with an armload of food. He set it in the passenger seat and climbed in.

"Yes," Ginger said flatly. "Drive, Mate."

And then he scowled in recognition. "You're the same driver from last night."

The cabbie twisted around, really stopping to study his passengers for the first time. "What the . . . I'm driving with a ghost!" he yelped.

"I am _not_ a ghost!" Ginger retorted.

"And thank God for that," Lou declared.

They were alive and well and going home.

Just as it should be.


End file.
